


The Apostate

by SugarSweetRascal



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dubious Consent, Greasy Old Man Sendak, M/M, Mage!Keith, Sorcerer!Keith, Stomach Bulge from Penis, Voyeurism, filling the dark soul crushing void in your heart with someone else, greasy slimeball Haxus, great tags am I right, huge cock, magic is illegal, prince!lance, therefore Keith is a Bad Boy™
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:11:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9651296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarSweetRascal/pseuds/SugarSweetRascal
Summary: Lance is the Prince of Altea, whose kingdom has been suddenly, unexpectedly overthrown. The Queen is likely dead, and he may be as well if he isn't lucky. Mortally injured and fleeing for his life, Lance stumbles upon a tiny hidden cottage deep in the forest, finding an apostate of the law - a magic user, a sorcerer. The mage might be his only chance at survival -And he’s pretty damn hot.{Fantasy AU. Klance, implied Sheith, Dub-Con w/Galra}





	1. Chapter 1

Air felt of fire in his lungs, gasping deeply for every ounce of breath he could muster. His legs ached and cramped but still he pushed on, leaping and striding widely through the thick brush of the darkened forest. The knights were still likely hot on his tail, he could not waste a moment to pause or slow in his dash of escape, no matter how his feet bled and tore within their boots, thin and ornamental and never meant to handle running for one’s life.

Branches caught Lance’s cheeks and eyes in scratches as he sprinted through the dark forest, barely a half moon in the sky above delivering dim light to guide his way. His gaudy clothes has ripped and torn and caught on various brambles of the trees and bushes, elegant mid-shoulder tresses mussed and half pulled out of his regal ponytail. He'd given in to losing his thick brocade coat just before scampering through an icy river, knowing the water soaking into it would weigh him down. Now in just a light tunic and trousers, thin boots and soaked to the bone, Lance prayed he wouldn’t freeze to death out here should he be lucky enough to escape the knights at all.

The siege of the castle had been a complete surprise to them all. The Kingdom of Altea, vast and rich and beautiful, was well loved and respected by her surrounding countries and lands; a hardy, reliable mate should you be in her alliance, and a force to be reckoned with should you be her foe. High Princess Allura, First of Her Name, had ruled for several years now, mighty and bold and a beacon of respect across her lands. There had been peace in the realm for centuries now, hardly a stir about border lines of trade since the last Great War ended. Lance lived a luxurious life as Prince of Altea, soaking in the honour and respect of the royal life but having little to worry his days as second child of the late King, his beautiful half-sister running the kingdom smoothly whilst he lounged about and flirted with ladies in court.

Perhaps it was the spreading of news that High Princess Allura had fallen ill that attracted the attack. His sister had recently taken sick with a mysterious illness, not appearing to be fatal, but yet the illness’ clutches still hung to her for weeks on end, keeping her locked away in her chambers to recover. News of her condition had purposely been spread to neighbouring nations, to forewarn emissaries and lords that Altea would not be negotiating any new agreements until the Princess was better, to save them the long journey to the kingdom. The people of Altea loved their Princess, as well, and with news of her wellbeing the common folk brought gifts and offerings to the castle in hopes she would feel their love for her.

Maybe the Royal Council should have been more cautious in spreading word of their leader’s weakened states. Evidently, a certain neighbouring empire took it as opportunity to strike.

Lance had been startled awake by screams, the book he’d dozed off whilst reading clattering to the floor of the grand library.

Fire?

Smoke billowed underneath the library doors before they burst open as a maid came running in, shrieking as she was chased by a large, heavily armored Knight in unfamiliar armor. The searing heat of blazing flames was all around, eating up the shelves of dry paper tomes and manifestos. Lance bolted from the burning room fueled by instinct alone, tearing through the hallways in a run and ducking low beneath the smoke. Every few corridors he would nearly trip over the legs of a body, a fallen guard or slain maid. He was smart to grab a sword from a dead guard before meeting any trouble of his own, slashing and fighting his way through with the well-trained hand of a Prince. Every stairway leading up was blocked by either fire or fighting, large packs of invading knights too large for Lance to take on by himself. He scampered down to the main floor of the castle, seething and spitting in fear and anger that he could not find a way upstairs. His sister’s chambers. He had to know if she was alright, of if these invaders had captured her, or worse –

How Lance had managed to burst out through the doors of the castle and find his way outside, he truly wasn’t sure. He’d hardly known where he was going in his own home, confused and blinded by smoke and deadly skirmishes. Finally the air was clearer and he could see, wiping soot from his eyes and absorbing the slaughter of the kingdom outside.

Hoards of the invaders ransacked the town with more fire, civilians screaming and fleeing in every direction, large burly knights on horseback clattering through the cobblestone streets. Lance tripped over one, the body of a fallen invader, landing roughly on the dead man’s chest. In the glow of firelight, Lance landed roughly and came face first into the curled, jagged symbol on the man’s chestplate, the symbol of a bordering land, massive in size and, until now, in peaceful alliance with his sister.

The Galran Empire.

“There! That’s the Prince!” Lance somehow heard a gruff shout behind him through the din of noise all around. “Capture him!”

And so Lance ran. Just kept running, through winding stonepacked streets of the city, through narrow alleys lined by creaking, crooked buildings, past the tall stone walls that bordered the city, and into the thick forest beyond. How long had he been fleeing now, hours? Mere minutes? The growls and shouts and snarls of the Galran forces hot on his tail kept his heart pounding through his ribs and legs bursting forwards through the blinding trees. His only solace now was that he could no longer hear them so closely behind him, not after crossing that last river. It had been deeper that the streams before it. He hoped some of the invaders had drowned, or at least been swept away.

In the darkness of the night, Lance could not see the large tree root sprawling directly in his path. He tripped clean over it, sending him flying forwards, hitting the ground in a rough roll. Then the forest floor seemed to drop out from under him as he landed just on the edge of a knoll. Down he tumbled, ass over tea kettle, slamming into rock and tree and stump and cartwheeling every which way the entire way down. Head bashed numerous times, vision spinning, every limb cut and throbbing and perhaps broken, at last he felt the ground become level beneath him and his tumble rolled to a stop. Lance gasped deeply, every ounce of air knocked from his lungs, eyes blearily opening to see the night sky twinkling above, eventually slowing in its hectic spinning.

It was eerily quiet. He did not hear the shouts of the Galran knights nor the trampling of their steed’s hooves. Only the gentle wind rustling leaves of the trees, bringing a fridge chill through his soggy clothes. He had to get up and find shelter, not matter how his body protested.

A smell caught his nose so suddenly that Lance wondered how it just came upon him now. Smoke, wood smoke. A fireplace. A house.

Lance meagrely trembled and struggled to stand, clutching one arm roughly around where blood oozed from his bicep, and looked. He saw nothing, at first, but an empty glen, just a small open area thinned of trees but boxed in from all sides by them – until somehow, his eyes caught it, right beside where he stood.

Blended ever so cleverly into the side of the hill in which he’d just tumbled down, stood an aged, wooden door, dark like the earth around and above it. When Lance truly squinted he even managed to find a thin chimney poking from the grass a few feet above, a thin line of smoke puffing gently from it’s mouth. Had he hit his head so hard that he was hallucinating this sight? Some sort of cabin built into the side of the knoll? Likely. Still, Lance hobbled forward towards the mysterious door, dragging one foot limply behind him, ankle horribly shattered.

He could see but a single hole sealed with glass to the side of the door, all that appeared to serve as a window into the strange cottage. Beyond the glass was nothing but more darkness, not a single candle lit. Lance released his bloody upper arm to knock heavily thrice upon the creaky wooden door.

“Please, let me in! I am wounded and lost. Open the door!”

Nothing stirred inside the cottage as Lance turned to look behind and above him, still not hearing nor seeing any of the trailing knights.

“I know someone is in there, please!”

Still no evident sounds emerged. Lance tried for the door handle, shaking desperately against the locked mechanism.

“I am your Prince! I command you to open this do- ”

He nearly tumbled into the cottage as the door handle unlocked without warning and the door gave way to Lance’s weight. He pulled himself through the threshold and closed the door behind him, leaning on it heavily as he breathed a sigh of exhausted relief. It was then that he once again opened his eyes to absorb the view of the cottage around him.

There wasn’t much to see, at first, but a small square of wooden floor illuminated by moonlight from the window. His own panting filling his ears, more of the mysterious room’s details appeared as vague outlines and shapes as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

The entire inside was a mess. Massive stacks of – books? Perhaps - sat on every surface and made tall piles on the floors. Silvery strands of cobwebs glinted with moonlight as they lined the shelves of bookcases, tying bottles and boxes together beneath a thick layer of dust. The air was musky of rotting wood and burnt ash.

No inhabitant to be seen.

“Hello…?” Lance clears his parched throat, looking around nervously. The dug-out cottage was tiny, for the most part just one single rounded room, but for one wall separating a room to itself on his right.

Lance dared trudge a step forward, and instantly felt a sharp prick and cool edge of metal at his throat.

“Who are you.”

Lance could not see the body behind him to match the voice holding a dagger to his windpipe. He swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bob sharply against the knife’s edge.

“I-I told you, I am your Prince.”

“Prince who?”

“Prince Lance of Altea, Third of My Name, Second Born to the Late King Alf- “

“You lie.”

“No, I-I can prove it!” Lance’s every muscle was clenched tightly and frozen in place. “My arm, the one that’s bleeding. I have the Royal Mark, see for yourself.”

The knife did not move and the stranger made no sound, considering Lance’s request. Then a tug on Lance’s arm, fingers pulling at the torn cloth and ripping the tattered sleeve clean off his tunic. A warm hand brushed away trails of blood from his forearm. Lance nearly jumped in surprise at the sudden burst of light as a nub of a candle was suddenly lit, the fire shoved close to view the arm in question. Revealed was the icy white brand of the Kingdom of Altea on Lance’s tanned flesh. A crescent moon filled with runes and patterns from the kingdom’s mythology. The symbol of the royal family’s house, tattooed into the flesh of each royal soon after birth to mark their heritage permanently.

The dagger pulled away from Lance’s throat, and the stranger stepped around Lance to reveal himself.

 _By the Gods,_ Lance thought, _this stranger is beautiful._

His face, at first, is obscured by the dark hood of a cape, before the stranger pulls it back to show his face. The flame from the single half-candle is small, but enough for Lance to make out that the stranger’s skin in pallid, stretched taunt over high cheekbones, eyes edged in kohl. A searing gaze from rich irises of dark, near-violet blue, shadowed by long strips of inky black bangs from uneven shoulder length hair. Lance’s eyes roamed further south, spying the man’s dark, loose tunic contrasting a pair of tight leather breeches, with a wide belt slanted off his hips in which he sheathed the dagger that had caressed Lance’s neck.

“Why are you here, Prince.” The stranger asked, the hand not bearing the candle clenching a fist, stiff at his side.

Lance swallowed, tongue thick in his dry mouth. “Usually one addresses a prince as Your Highness…”

“Why are you here, Prince.”

Lance does not push the matter further. “The castle was taken under siege, we’ve been attacked by the Galran Empire. I narrowly escaped, somehow - but I was chased by Galran knights. I don’t know how I lost them honestly…took quite a tumble on my way here.” Despite the pain radiating from every limb, Lance smiled limply in jest, gently motioning to his entire bedraggled form. The stranger gave him a quick once over.

“You’re hurt.”

“ _Yes._ ”

“You expect me to help you?”

“Well, seeing as I am your prince…yes?”

Beneath the dark bangs and black kohl, the stranger rolled his eyes.

“I’ve nothing here to help you. You should go.”

“I can’t! They’re still searching for me out there. At least let me hide in here, a few days until they’ve lost my trail – “ Lance sidestepped further into the hut, pushing a bit roughly past the pretty stranger to assess the nearest hiding spot amongst the massive dirty piles of books and –

There, behind a tall stack of – what he could now faintly see were crumbling papers and scrolls - was a single, large cauldron in the fireplace, contents bubbling silently despite the fire beneath it looking long-since burnt out and merely smoking. The long handle of a spoon stirred the brew rhythmically, all by itself.

The stranger quickly followed Lance’s frozen gaze and realized his mistake, one small detail of bewitchment he forgot to hide.

“Mage! You’re a mage!” Lance cries, the horror of his own words sending him backpedaling from the strange man, careening into a pile of dusty books, his wounded ankle giving out. The stranger dropped the candle and lunged on him swiftly, slapping a hand over the Prince’s mouth.

“Shut up! Not so loud, you idiot! Do you want those knights to hear you?”

Lance pried the man’s fingers away. “You’re a mage! A magic user! That’s been forbidden for centuries!” Lance hissed in a quieter tone, still filled with alarm.

“Why do you say that like I wouldn’t know?” the man grasps Lance’s chin suddenly, turning his face side to side while looking into the Prince’s eyes; searching, assessing.

“ _Damn the Gods,_ ” he curses, “I think you’re concussed. Look,” the stranger shoves away from Lance, whom leans heavily on the somewhat steady book pile to keep him upright. He reclaims the discarded candle before any stray scraps catch fire, his eyes fierce and piercing into Lance’s through the flickers of flame. “I’ll make you a deal, Prince. Yes, I am a mage, therefore I can heal you with spells and salves, and hide you if the guards come looking. In return, you will keep my secret, and never tell a soul where I am located, or that we ever met.”

“I don’t make deals with criminals.” Lance ground out in a feeble attempt at nobility, hastily clutching a sharp pain in his side he was coming to notice only now after roughly landing on the books. He glanced down to himself and saw crimson leaking out between the fingers clasping his ribs.

“You don’t have much of a choice.” The mage spits. “You go back outside, you’ll either freeze in your soaked clothing, be captured, or bleed to death from _that_.”

Lance’s mind felt sloshed and blurry around the edges, blood loss from his various wounds likely taking its effect on his brain. The stranger was correct, he didn’t really have any other options…

“Fine.” He growled, and immediately the stranger ducked low, reaching between two dangerously uneven stacks of books to pull out an ornately carved staff. Its length looked to be made of blackened wood, carvings like vines twining down the length, and at the top were thin spindles of branches clutching a fat ruby stone that glistened in the scant candlelight.

“Move this,” the stranger set down the candle on the nearest perch and pried Lance’s hand off his mortal wound, placing his own palm flat on the prince’s ribs. His touch made Lance twitch, warm and electric and  - oh, _mmmm,_ what was _that_ –

A twisting, almost tickling coolness sunk into his flesh beneath a glow of pale green, and he could feel the gash knitting back together from deep within where the injury was most perilous. Lance’s gaze shot up to the stranger’s face, finding his lined eyes and peachy lips pursed in concentration.

The cool tingling ebbed away with the green light, the stranger’s hand lingering a moment more. “It’s not pretty, but you won’t bleed to death. Go,” the stranger stepped away, pointing to the doorway of the only other room in the cottage. “Lay down, I’ll work on the rest.”

Lance’s eyes flickered over to the intended spot, seeing nothing but more filthy piles of things and dust within the chamber. “Are you supposed to be gesturing to a bed right now? I don’t see anything under all that jun-”

The stranger lifted both hands, staff included, in a quick flick upwards, and in one solid wave of magic, all of the dust and dirt and grime in the cottage flew up and dissolved into thin air. Twists of fire dotted from bewitched candles spread around the cabin, finally giving proper lighting to the home. Stacks of books went flying off of each surface they covered, filling a bookcase to the brim. A second bookcase that had been laying on its face now righted itself and was also stuffed full of papers and scrolls neatly. A small table was revealed with three mismatched chairs, a basin for washing up on a narrow side table, a small wooden bathtub near the back of the rounded room. Through the doorway of the second room there was now a writing desk, and armoire – and finally, a small, drooping bed where the mage had been pointing.

“What was all _that?_ ” Lance looked around in astonishment at the instantly cleaned and illuminated cottage. The stranger gave a gruff shove to Lance’s back, pressing him to hobble into the bedroom on his wounded foot.

“A disguise, to make it appear that no one lives here, _so no one would come knocking._ ” The stranger intoned heavily, delivering another quick shove, Lance taking the uncivilized hint to sit on the edge of the well-worn straw mattress.

“An abandoned cottage with a smoking chimney?”

The stranger paused without a comeback, clearly realizing that his single mistake, the one charm he'd forgotten to mask, was visible from outside the cottage, making the error twice as humiliating. Even in the dim lighting of a nearly burnt out candle, Lance could make out the faint pink of frustrated embarrassment on the stranger’s cheeks.

Lance, despite the pain radiating from every limb of his body, managed to peel open a small grin and gently laugh at the stranger’s cute sheepish expression. The man tried so hard to look stoic and fearsome, but every crack in the façade showed more of the man’s true character. Lance did not even know his name.

The stranger knelt down, setting his staff along the worn wooden floor planks. He took Lance’s busted foot in both hands and closed his eyes in focus, the soothing green light returning as more tingling cold waves absorbed into Lance’s flesh. Without notice, Lance let out a groan at the pleasurable feeling, letting his head loll back between his shoulders.

“So then, sorcerer, - _mmph –_ ” Lance purred mid-sentence at the waves of blissful magic wafting up his entire leg. “What should I call you?”

“My name, I suppose.”

Lance chortled, rolling his head back up to look at the man. “Which would be?”

The two locked eyes as the man gently set Lance’s foot down on the floor, before standing and reaching to the prince’s face.

“Keith.”

His fingers entwined in the long, dark chestnut hair on either side of the prince’s head, framing Lance’s face between the mage’s arms. Then the green light burst forth and the cooling waves of magic soaked into Lance’s skull. He let out a moan, feeling his toes curl in his boots and his eyes roll back in his head at the euphoric sensation. His fingers scrabbled for something to sink into besides the threadbare blanket, and thrust out to find grip on the both sides of the mage’s hips, clasping firmly into the tight leather pants while the man worked.

Headache and concussion vanished, vision no longer spinning, Lance opened his eyes as the green light faded away and Keith’s hands fell from his tangled hair. The whole mage nearly fell, slumping forwards in exhaustion, nearly landing on top of Lance if not for catching himself with one arm braced on the wall just behind the bed, leaning over the prince and panting heavily. His blackened hair clung damply to the sides of his face, which was flushed with exertion and a mere foot from the prince’s own.

“I can’t…no more.” The mage, this _Keith_ , gasped. “I’m drained of all mana. No more tonight. You won’t die in your sleep; that’s good enough. Until tomorrow.”

Lance’s grip on the mage’s hips was convenient in helping keep the man from crumbling forwards. “Perhaps you should lay down.”

Keith shook his head. “You’re still injured. You take the bed, I’ll sleep…somewhere else.”

Keith pushed off the wall onto wobbly legs, attempting to step away from the bed. Lance held firm to the boy’s hips.

“I don’t think that would be best. Surely we could squeeze in together, it would be a tight fit, but – ”

“You’re already asking me to lay with you, Prince?”

Lance crept out a smile, amused to find the serious boy seeming to throw out a joke. No. Wait. He looked fairly put off, didn’t he? Ah. Not a joke, then.

Keith righted himself properly, pulling the prince’s hands from his hips and exiting the room without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been nearly a month but most of this I wrote today. Just take it, kittens, TAKE IT. I can't look at it anymore. When did I get so deep into plot writing?? Where's the porn??

Lance stirred in the silent cabin, deep sighing breaths awakening him from slumber, bringing forth aches and soreness from the run for his life nights before.

Punctured spleen, mangled ankle, and mild concussion may have been scratched off his list of current injuries, but the prince was nowhere near back in ship shape, if the groan rolling past his busted lip was any indication. Several days had passed since the invasion of Altea, and the wayward prince had barely struggled out of the mage’s bed, too weak and injured still, barely conscious for the majority of his time. Brief glimpses of quick, quiet words were all he could remember of the latter days, between euphoric waves of the sorcerer’s healing spells mending torn flesh and splintered bone back together. After three sun rises and sets, chancing a rub to clear the morning grit from his eyes still brought a twinge of pain with it – Lance glanced to his hand and noted a few purpled knuckles below finger tips slightly crooked in their places. Dislocated, possibly broken. Wonderful.

He eased into a sitting up stance on the sagging bed, despite aches and bruises protesting each movement. The worn straw mattress upon which he rested would have been taken as an absolute _insult_ for a prince to sleep on, if the situation had been anything other than dire. To Lance, it was as plush and heavenly as any feather-stuffed bed in his castle home – well, alright, that was laying it on a bit thick. But still, Lance had been practically comatose the moment he’d laid down that first night, maybe even a second earlier, exhausted and brutalized and so incredibly thankful for his immense luck at finding this strange little hidden hut.

Not to mention the mysterious little spitfire apostate living inside it. Mmm.

Cracked lips snuck open widely. Keith, was that his name? His magic was…daunting. Creepy. Fine, positively frightening. Every children’s story and religious sermon Lance had ever been forced to sit through hammered in the wickedness of magic, how evil it was and how sinful its bearers were. Stains upon the Earth, apostates of the church, mages, sorcerers, warlocks – whatever you wished to call them – were given their gifts by demons, not the Gods, and could only do harm. Or so the crotchety old priests would hiss, swathed in thick clouds of sweet smoke from ceremonial candles.

Keith had given him not only shelter, but stopped up his bleeding, mended broken bones, sewed together his ruptured insides that surely would have killed him within hours, maybe minutes. And all the mage asked for in return was secrecy. Not gold, power, or anything else sinister or of ill repute. Just to live alone, unbothered.

Despite the chill lingering at the base of his spine from a lifetime of teaching the contrary, Lance’s thoughts couldn’t help but cut the mage a little slack. He was helping him, after all. The barely-there memories of his past three days showed Lance glimpses of the mage knelt at his bedside, cold fingers clutching wounds to seep delicious healing through Lance’s skin, slick goblets pressing carefully to the prince’s lips, baying him to drink and gain his strength. The memories, still fuzzy around the edges, showed a man hardened by his time all alone. Keith did not smile easily, was wary to answer Lance’s slurred questions about the mage. Guarded, careful, but still giving; selfless to take in a stranger. Could have killed Lance so easily in his weakened state, yet nursed him back to health. Lance would keep both eyes carefully trained on the mage, just in case – but his instantaneous disgust and apprehension of the magic user had undoubtedly faded.

Lance bore weight with both arms onto the bed until he was steady enough to stand. His clothes were unchanged from the night of his arrival, the ragged remnants of his royal wear. He’d even fallen asleep with his torn, thin suede boots on, like some sort of _savage._

The foot that had been healed by the mage the first night no longer bore any deep, swollen blisters, but the other still burned with them inside his boot. Lance struggled to kick off the ruined footwear before gently trudging out of the bedroom and into the larger room of the cottage.

Gentle sunlight pouring in from the single, small window showed the cottage air to be thick with dust, despite Keith’s cleaning spell. Lance glanced around the room again, noting each table and bookcase and scroll of fine paper, wondering where exactly the feisty little mage had slept the last few nights if not – the bath tub. Or maybe just the floor. A pity, truly, Lance had be genuine in his offer to share the boy’s bed.

He held tight to the backboard of the first mismatched kitchen chair he reached, sitting himself gingerly whilst his eyes still scanned the hut’s insides. The walls were a stained, pasty white of old mortar, with thick wooden beams along the ceiling to keep the weight of the hill around and above from caving in the cabin. He brushed the papery wall nearest him, feeling the chill of frozen earth through the cracking plaster, telling of the nearing winter. The whole place, it truly was dug into the knoll, carved out and covered over by the earth. Had it served a purpose before becoming a mage’s hideout, or had Keith dug the cavern himself? The aging of the walls and crumbling stone fireplace suggested an origin much older than the young sorcerer.

Lance was still absorbed in his thoughts of the cabin when the door creaked open and a hooded form stepped through.

A dull thump, closely followed by Lance nearly toppling backwards out of the chair as something struck him square in the face. With a quick ‘oomph!’, he managed to right himself with all four chair legs safely returned to the floor, shoving away the large projectile and spitting what had caught in his mouth – feathers? He glanced quickly into his lap to see the fresh carcass of a multi coloured bird with long rear feathers, then up again to see Keith standing feet away in the doorway, bow strung across his back, dark cape shrouding him. His hood was still pulled over his head, but beneath its shadow his eyes were clearly wide with surprise.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you, no one’s usually sitting there – ” the mage gestured vaguely behind Lance to another, taller table, slightly stained and bearing many knife slices in its face, likely the surface in which he prepared his food, and the expected landing spot for the feld bird.

Lance locked eyes with the boy and again, gave another spat filled with stray plumage.

Keith tugged down the hood of his cape, eyes once again smudged darkly with kohl. Lance noted the glimmer of several metal hoops up the sides of both the boy’s ears, his inky hair pulled back into a small ponytail behind his head. Keith shrugged the longbow and quiver of arrows from his shoulders and leaned them against the wall, peeling his fingerless hunter’s gloves from each hand, if only to find an excuse to break the prince’s imposing eye contact.

“You shouldn’t be sitting there, in fact. You shouldn’t have left bed yet. You’re still very injured. S-So really, it’s your own fault – ”

“You’re blaming _me?_ ” Lance scoffed. “You hit me in the face with a pheasant!”

“A dead pheasant! Stop whining.” Keith shut the door firmly with curt _wham_.

“Trying to injure me even further, are we, mage? Throwing dead birds at your visitors, I can see why you’re so popular! Oh wait, that’s right, you’re a hermit in the middle of the forest!”

The dark, heavy cloak was the next item to be chucked at the prince’s face as Keith shucked it off before storming across the room, muttering what sounded to be _“ungrateful”_ beneath his breath. Lance tossed the cloak in an opposite chair with a grumble, watching Keith approach the fireplace, stoking the dim flame beneath the massive iron cauldron with another dry log.

 _Oh,_ never mind anger, Lance steadily swapped out his frustration for devilish intrigue, seeing the mage kneeled low, the tight leather of his black breeches pulling taunt across his ass as he stirred the bubbling pot’s contents. Lance peeled open a sly smirk, bracing his head in his hand (delicately, still quite tender) and leaned his elbow on the tabletop, making no qualms that he was staring at the lad’s rear. He’d been unconscious the better part of three days, and was now terribly far behind on his pretty-thing-ogling quota.

What was that he’d told himself minutes ago? Ah yes, he’d decided not to fear the mage after all. So a complete 180 into over-zealous drooling was just the way to go.

Keith didn’t notice for several long moments, intent on ignoring his uninvited guest. He snagged a small wooden cup from the hearth’s mantle, carefully ladling a dose of the cauldron’s brew inside. When he turned to face the prince once more, he grimaced at the wolfish expression he saw. “What?”

“Just…admiring,” Lance preened, “Not quite as curvaceous as the ladies at court but, _alas._ You’ll have to do.”

Keith stood quickly, teeth grinding and eyes set as a light flush snuck across his face. “If you insist on acting like an animal, I _will_ throw you outside like one.”

Seeming to have already forgotten both the bow leaned on the wall and the knife held at his throat nights before, Lance egged the mage on further, thoroughly amused at Keith’s easy agitation as the lad stepped closer.

“Oh no, not going to throw another _pheasant_ at me, are you? Lords have _mercy_ – “

The cup was shoved in Lance’s face roughly, some of the thick, green contents sloshing down the side.

“Drink this and shut up. You’d do well to remember _I’m helping you_.”

Lance nearly pouted before taking the cup, fingers sliding through Keith’s to grip the dribbling chalice.

“It’s a health poultice. Its weak, but it will take the edge off, and heal most minor wounds.” He took a glance downwards at their nearly intertwined fingers, noting Lance’s discoloured, swollen knuckles.

Lance downed the questionable potion quickly, doing his best not to let any of the swampy liquid grace his tongue. Setting the cup on the table’s face, he cleared his throat several times, trying to rid any lingering taste from his palette.

Cold fingers grasped at both his wrists and brought together his hands, a clasp almost like praying. A smaller, paler set of hands covered his own as the gentle green light returned. Lance groaned at the familiar pleasure of soothing waves sinking into each aching finger and tendon.

“I really wish you wouldn’t make such a noise when I heal you.”

“I can’t help it,” Lance drawled, eyes rolling back in his head by the pleasure. “Have you ever felt it yourself?”

“Yes, and I wasn’t nearly so dramatic about it.” The light faded away and Keith made to pull back his hands, but they were swiftly caught by the prince’s, entangling their fingers snuggly.

“Mmm, I’m sure it doesn’t feel as good doing it to yourself. Like many things.” Lance threw a wink.

“You moan like a common tavern whore.” Keith deadpanned, pulling out of the prince’s hold.

“Speaking of whores,” Lance sparked up at the thought, gesturing to his bedraggled state of ripped and missing clothing. “I look quite a bit like one, wouldn’t you say? Anything I might borrow to wear?”

More low toned muttering followed by a frustrated violet eye roll, Keith stepped away from the prince and into his bedroom. Lance stood from the chair and hobbled to follow.

Keith threw open the doors of his creaking wardrobe roughly, pawing through messy stacks of partially folded linens on various shelves. Lance peered over the mages shoulder easily, his slight but evident height over the lad coming to his advantage. He reached around the mage to pull at a stack of deep ruby fabric, which seemed to be the only article on the shelves folded with any amount of care. The material was filmy and gauzy between his fingertips, and he quickly opened the garment with flick of his wrists. It unfurled easily, showing strips of mostly transparent red cut in odd patterns, swooping low and deep at various angles. Lance couldn’t tell what the garment was supposed to be, a frock? A dress? There was barely enough fabric all together to call it decent. Oh. _Oh._ Lance could feel a grin spread open his lips. Maybe it wasn’t _meant_ to be decent. Oh, this was a _goldmine._

The ruby outfit was snatched roughly from Lance’s grasp but the mage, face nearly as crimson as the fabric. _“Don’t touch that.”_

Lance was beaming at the boy’s clear embarrassment. “What is that thing? Not what you mages typically wear, is it?”

 _“Drop it.”_ The outfit was roughly shoved beneath a heavy-looking stack of blankets on the lowest shelf.

“For a special occasion, then?” Lance needled on, because of course he did. The prince could not simply ‘drop’ the subject of a scandalous see-through one piece in the mysterious, hot, brooding mage’s closet. “You wear that for someone special?”

“Either stay in rags or shut it, Prince.”

Lance held his hands up in a mockery of surrender. He then tenderly lowered himself to sit on the bed and wait for the mage to finish the clothing search, his help clearly unappreciated. Keith pulled at numerous articles, shirts and trousers alike, seeming unsatisfied with each item and stuffing them haphazardly back into the wardrobe, clearly looking for a few pieces in particular.

Lance, ever nosey and easily bored when not constantly entertained, thought to both busy himself and sate some lingering curiosity. He scooted himself to the head of the bed, quietly pulling open the small drawer on the face of the bedside table and picking through its contents.

The majority of the drawer was filled with yellowing envelopes, their edges stained from the oil of fingerpads and tattered from reading of the letters inside again and again. _Keith_ was all that marked the envelopes, no further addressage. Lance didn’t dare pull one open for a read yet, but made mental note to peek into them later, when Keith wasn’t three feet away. Besides the pile of letters were only a few other items: a covered clay pot of plain salve, likely for dry hands, a fine toothed comb, a thimble and pins, a rust speckled mirror with a shard of glass missing, and most interestingly, a silver tray holding several curvy flasks of multicoloured liquids. Lance nicked a vial and held it close, eyeing the slide of the yellowish liquid inside the ornately shaped glass. There were five or six bottles all together, none in the same shaped vial. The prince’s eyes flashed to the mage, back turned to him still as he inspected a pair of breeches. Lance quietly dared to pull the stopper from the flask, just as Keith sighed gently under his breath, closing the wardrobe at last.

A deep, sensual musk wafted from the vial. Dark and rich, hints of cardamom, ginger, and cinnamon, with something lightly floral, wild roses maybe – Lance new immediately that these bottles were incensed oils. Well made, expensive ones at that. The tray of oils would easily be worth double, if not triple the value of the entire cabin and all its dusty, bedraggled contents, including the price to buy the land. You couldn’t find real cinnamon in this part of the world without bleeding your pockets. Lance also knew of only one reason incensed body oils were made (and kept at the bedside, no less), if a lifetime of wooing court ladies and visiting high scale brothels accounted as knowledge.

“Seal that. _Now.”_ Keith had turned instantly at the familiar aroma, strong enough to waft through the bedroom within moments. Colour dusked high on his cheeks again, though it grew increasingly difficult to distinguish if it was from more embarrassment, or mounting irritation.

“ ‘S some nice stuff you’ve got here, Keith. Expensive. Arusian Oil, isn’t it?” Lance recapped the vial, setting in back into the silver tray before the drawer was slammed shut by the mage, nearly jamming Lance’s fingers.

“Stop. Touching. My things.” The breeches Keith had been holding were thrown into the prince’s empty lap, followed by a clean white tunic aimed directly at Lance’s face. “There’s your damn clothes. Get back into bed, and stop touching everything.” Lance pulled the shirt off his face, glancing at the simple clothing he’d been gifted. Within moments, it was easy to see that the breeches Keith had lent him would be long enough to cover the prince’s tall, tanned legs, but would be much too long for the lad himself. Must be why he was searching so adamantly though his wardrobe, knowing he had a pair too large for him.

Because they weren’t _his_ breeches, Lance thought. Larger men’s clothes, pricey personal oils, stacks of over-read letters, and a scant, gauzy outfit. Was Keith not as alone in this cottage as he claimed? Did he keep a _lover?_

Lance quirked an eyebrow, smirking knowingly. “Who is he?”’

Nearly out the bedroom door, a barely visible shutter ran up the mage’s spine as he froze in place.

“Mmm, that good, is he?”

“You – “ Keith wasn’t prepared with any words to follow that statement as he turned on his heel and just left. 

 

Several more days blinked away whilst Lance lived with Keith, his time filled with delectable pleasure each time Keith had rekindled enough mana to heal another injury. Between each treatment Lance entertained himself with bothering the sorcerer. Comments made to make the boy tick, turn pink, or stutter at his words. It was a challenge to see which of the three responses Lance would acquire next, and thus far, no more fowl carcasses had been thrown at his head, though the bow had been picked up once.

He cleverly eeked out more information about the mysterious mage, betwixt short conversations while helping with menial tasks around the cabin. Whether he realized it or not, the ever-so-secretive Keith was warming to conversation, and within a few lines of back and forth banter, would reveal more about himself and his past than he likely realized – even about his faceless lover. Lance was a master at slipping secrets from the lips of his targets, with two simple tricks – either get them talking while distracted, or while drunk. If you were lucky, both at the same time.

His gathered information – snippets revealed by the mage himself, but mostly from swiping the letters in the nightstand - painted and interesting tableau. Keith had lived in this strange dug out hut for several years, all alone, but for the random, unplanned visits from his lover – _Shiro,_ that was the named signed neatly at the end of each mushy letter. He claimed he was a traveller, a nomad, forever wandering, searching, and learning of and about the world and her peoples. _How artistic_ , Lance had thought, rolling his eyes and resisting the urge to gag _._ Shiro would be gone for months on end with no estimation of when he might return, but after a few years of such a relationship, he always had, bringing wonderful gifts and remarkable stories from faraway lands for Keith to enjoy. How many more baubles from this suitor were tucked away in the cabin, like the delicate flasks of incensed oils?

Lance thought this Shiro fellow sounded more like a simple homeless person, though a twinge of jealously gave a good shove towards developing this theory. Likely a drunkard, Lance told himself, pinching fineries from expensive shops and stumbling back to Keith with stolen prizes and telling alcohol-fueled nonsense. He snickered to himself as he imagined how Keith’s eyes might grow wide and sparkle in amazement to hear the drunkard’s cheaply spun tales, laid out in front of the cabin’s fireplace on a stolen bearskin rug. He’d be naked but for all the stolen jewels and gems he’d wear, as decorated as a pricey whore. Would Keith spread his legs easily for this man who’d brought him fine gifts? Would he be fucked into the carpet on the drunkard’s prick, moaning wildly with the easy slide of all those sweet smelling oils in the bedside drawer?

If that was all it took to get the mage to bend over, outside of Lance’s imagination that is, he’d be set for life with a horny Keith in his lap. He trembled in childish excitement to think of the bursting royal coffers he could sift from to pay the pretty mage into his bed –

Which would remind Lance of _how_ , per say, he met this lonely magic user that so filled his every thought. Memories of home, looming stone castle walls, his blearily drab days at court – none of that was the same anymore. And it never would be the same, truly, would it? What damage may have been done to his home, between the fires, looting and vandalism? His own dear sister, leader of the kingdom – Lance couldn’t bear to think of her possible condition without bile rising in his throat. Had her butlers and ladies in waiting managed to hide her away before the invaders found her chambers? Or had she been defenseless in her weakened state to the Galra’s grubby hands and bloodstained swords?

Lance felt like the air was knocked from his lungs at the mere thought of his sister possibly being killed, and yet, remembering those knights, their savagery and brutality…Lance gambled to think death may have been a mercy compared to what other fates they may have had for her. His dear, kind, fearless Allura…

Despite the guilt it bore on his heart, Lance tried not to think too much of this. These worries tormenting his dreams at night were enough, he would be unable to function should he dwell upon his heartbreak at all hours. Reminders popped up here and there still. Lance wished Keith could heal his uneasy mind the same as he healed each cut and scrape, but to be honest – in a small way, he could. Already had. Continued to do so with each passing day, each passing conversation serving as distraction as Keith warmed up to the lost prince.

Several days later, Lance finally put to words a nagging, restless thought.

“I’ve crossed borders, haven’t I.”

Keith didn’t look up from the bundle herbs he tied together with twine, fit for hanging to dry out.

The prince tried to catch his eyes from feet away. “This isn’t Altean soil. _You’re_ not Altean.”

Stalks of thyme were gently set down on the butchery table’s face, though Keith’s eyes did not rise to meet the prince’s. Lance, as well, set down the basil he’d been given to bind on the kitchen table where he sat.

“And you’ve come to this conclusion, how?” Keith’s voice was hardly more than a murmur, unsure.

“Just…little things you say, different terms.” Lance begins, “The lilt on your words, an accent, it’s slight, but…different. Not like I’ve heard very often.”

Keith managed to throw the prince a quick glance, lips pursed like he was deciding whether to respond.

“Plus the ears.”

The mage twitched, remark unexpected. Unconsciously, one hand released the herb sprigs to grace over an ear self-consciously.

“What about my ears?”

“They’re round.”

Keith's expression dipped into a second layer of puzzlement. “Round? What are yours then, square?”

Lance gently tucked long strands of overgrown bangs behind his ear, hair long since pull out of his regal ponytail. It revealed a subtle but present point to the helix, very slightly elongating into a point past the normal length a rounded ear might reach.

Keith, though completely intrigued by the curious shape, did his best to appear unfazed once more. “Does that upset you?”

“The ears, or the fact I’ve unexpectedly entered the Galran Empire?”

Keith’s façade of aloofness cracked instantly. “You’d more than a hunch, then. You seem to know exactly where you are.”

“The night I arrived here, tumbling down this hill of yours,” Lance gestured towards the ceiling, “Landed flat on my back at the bottom. I could see all the stars clearly, but they weren’t in their usual spots. The North Star was in the wrong place. They were all _sideways_ , to the right of how I normally saw them _._ ” Lance pushed away the basil as he stood, stepping closer to the mage without conscious thought despite the added effort it still took to move across the short distance.

“I knew then my mad dash to escape must have taken me west. Didn’t realize _how far_ west until, as mentioned, your ears and your speech. The national borders aren’t exactly marked on the soil in glittering paint. Could have crossed anywhere in the thick of the forest, without knowing.”

The prince was very close now, and Keith swallowed, more than a fair bit nervous. “Does that upset you?” He repeated as soft, uncalloused fingers gently gripped his chin, giving a slight tilt.

“No. But I am curious.” Lance had placed their faces dangerously close, looking for the smallest of facial changes while he interrogated. He felt the mage stiffen beneath his gentle hold. “Why would you help the usurped prince of an enemy nation?”

Keith’s eyes darted away. “I didn’t know about the invasion yet, you only mentioned it later – ”

“Fine, but why would you even let me inside?” Lance gave a small tug on his chin, hoping to draw back those violet eyes.

“You were making a horrible racket and didn’t look like you’d shut up if I didn’t – ”

Lance kept firm, already having thought of every excuse the mage was now dolling out. “ _No,_ you thought your cloaking spell had been flawless, and that this cabin looked abandoned. You could have kept ignoring me. So why break the illusion and let me in?”

“You co-” the mage stopped himself short, lips pinching into a sour grimace as if the word was poison on his tongue. He shoved the prince’s hand away and stepped back.

Lance quirked an eyebrow high. What had he said that night before the door swung open? Co…co co co…command. _As your Prince, I command you -_ right. Wait, no. Again, he _wasn’t_ Keith’s prince, he should not have felt any obligation to follow the command of an enemy prince –

“Look, as a child I met your Galran prince, Lo - Lit – whatever his name is. I don’t recall us looking or sounding anything alike. You must have known I wasn’t _your_ prince, so why would you have to follow my command?”

Lance’s final word shot through the mage like a bolt of lightning, his sidelong gaze whipped forward to meet Lance’s straight on, eyes wide, and it appeared – no, surely Lance was just seeing things now – that his violet irises themselves flashed a bright, glowing mauve for a fraction of a moment.

 “Shut up!” Keith spat on a rush of exhaled breath.

“The sweet Quiznak was that?” Lance was shocked, but also felt a laugh bubble out at the flip-of-a-switch reaction the mage gave. “Your eyes. They…glowed?”

Keith roughly shouldered past the prince, abandoning both the herbs and the conversation.

That word, it had to be: _command._ Some sort of key word for this guy. Keith hadn’t wanted to say it himself, looked like it _hurt_ him to say it - then when Lance did, his whole body stiffened and his eyes _glowed._ Lance had never before believed in curses or hexes, but Hell, this guy _lived_ off of magic, so it couldn’t be that unthinkable for evil spells to exist too, right?

It would explain why Keith had let him in that night; a convenient choice of words that ended up saving his hide. It seemed to cause the mage great distress, however. Which was rational. Lance wouldn’t be too keen on being controlled like a puppet by a simple phrasing of orders. He’d be careful not to say it again. Unless he really had to. Y’know, if Keith did turn out to be an evil demon sorcerer Hell spawn cretin thing.

Lance latched out to grasp the mage’s arm and halt his retreat, fingers sinking into the dark threadbare cloth of his tunic. “Alright, okay, fine, mage. I’m sorry, bad word, I won’t say it again. Promise on my honour.” He threw Keith a gentle, honest smile, one he hoped looked trustworthy.

“You honour? Am I to find that reassuring?” The mage held weight in his words, though Lance could see the raised hackles gently lowering, contracted muscles unknotting, relaxing beneath his hand’s hold on the boy. What was it with this guy? Each time Lance touched him he seemed to start calming down – or was it, giving in? Maybe Lance held more power than he thought…

“I’d certainly hope so. What good is an honourless prince?” Lance released Keith’s arm, hoping to defuse the tension further with a bit of comedic flair. He made a show of flicking his wrists into spirals before bowing deeply, overdramatically. “You have my most sincere oath, Ser Mage. In the name of my beloved late father, King Alfor of Altea, First of His Name -”

When he peeked a look back up, Keith wasn’t laughing, but his lips had relaxed out of the furrowed frown into, Lance dared to say, a tiny smirk. At least he didn’t look about to thrown another dead bird.

“Really don’t know when to shut it, do you Prince? Just finish your basil.” Keith turned and crossed the room to a heavy bookcase, bursting with tomes. He fished out a large, hard covered ledger and carried it back to the butchery table, dropping it heavily, a thick plume of dust erupting. “You’re doing it wrong, by the way.”

 _Who cares, it’s fucking basil._ Lance reseated himself politely, untying the cluster of leaves.

 

A deep, resounding sigh pressed through the lounging prince’s lips, muscles as lax as putty, mind numb with warmth as he soaked in the wooden bathtub. Not quite as blissful as the sensation of Keith’s healing spells, but wonderful nonetheless. His first proper washing up since staying with the mage, most major wounds mended enough to maneuver himself into the tub, forgoing the meager spot cleanings with a worn cloth he relied on until now. He was certain he must have smelled ghastly after a week. Now the soapy water infusing his limbs smelled of jasmine, and so would he. The night was dark and cold, just a quarter moon peeking out from black clouds threatening the first snow; but inside the cottage was warm from a fire in the hearth, a few candles casting dim light, adding to the cozy feeling of comfort that hung like a soothing fog. Lance forced himself to retreat from the tub with a second large sigh, the warmth of the water Keith had heated by magic long since faded, and his fingers squizzling to prunes.

He stood but bent at the waist, water running down his tanned, toned flesh in rivulets. He felt around the base of the tub until he found the knob Keith had mentioned, pulling it out of its hole. Instantly, the water gurgled and groaned, level dropping lower and lower in the tub as it swirled and disappeared through the hole he had created – what had Keith called it again, ‘drainage’? Some sort of tunnel dug beneath the floor, deep into the ground below. In hardly a minute, the tub had emptied of water, without tipping it over or scooping it empty with buckets. _Magical!_

Lance swiped a length of old cloth set beside the bathtub and began drying off. His chestnut locks dripped down his shoulder blades, thankfully now unknotted and unmarled after fighting through some horrible mats with Keith’s hair oil. He’d even found a few leaves caught in there. Ugh.

When he felt his hair and flesh to be sufficiently dry, he stepped out of the tub and a few feet away, wrapping the damp whitish cloth around his hips. Keith had lent him a scrap of soap, as well, to wash his borrowed clothes, which hung in front of the glowing fire, still drying. Should he be at home, Lance wouldn’t have bothered to cover himself, he wasn’t exactly _modest_ – but Keith had insisted upon stepping out whilst the prince bathed, even at this time of night, so Lance thought he’d be considerate and at least cover his best bits, should the mage return at any moment.

Quick thrums of distant noise suddenly caught the prince’s attention, not unlike hurried footsteps, getting louder one after the next. Coming from where – Lance couldn’t spot a direction, until – above? On top of the cabin, the hill! Someone was running right on top of –

A piece of the ceiling between two thick wooden beams opened up, a hatch Lance had never noticed. Faint moonlight had barely touched the wooden floor planks of the cabin when a great shadow dropped through, the hatch sealing shut behind it. The dark, thick cloak swept a spray of dirt and a few stray flakes of snow with it as Keith landed near directly on top of Lance, knocking the prince down in his descent.

Lance let out a cry and an oomph at his tackling, put was rapidly hushed with a fingerless-gloved hand over his mouth. Keith’s body stretched over top of him, laying them both flat on the floor. Not only did Keith hush the prince, he seemed to be trying to cover as much of him with his own body and cloak as he could, shrouding the Altean in darkness against the floor. With his other hand, Keith gave a quick wave, extinguishing the candles around the room and shrinking the hearth’s flame to a meager lick.

Keith’s forehead pressed into Lance’s own, their breaths mingling. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I may have been seen.”

Lance’s eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline as he squirmed beneath the mage. The _fully clothed_ mage, in harsh contrast to his own near nakedness. He felt the coolness of a leather-clad thigh pressed dangerously between his legs through the damp towel.

The unmistakable whinnies of horses echoed through the trees outside, loud enough to signal that their riders were within eyesight of the cabin, should they happen to notice it through its cunning natural camouflage.

The thunderous thrumming of hooves came next, quickly increasing in volume. Keith swore under his breath, rolling off Lance and scrambling to stand.

“Go! Hide!” He hissed his orders, pointing into the bedroom. “Under the bed. That should be enough, but I’ll cloak you further with a charm. Just – go!”

Lance tumbled over his own long limbs, skittering into the second room. “What about you?”

Keith chanced a peek out the single window. “Knights. Mine, not yours. But I know the leader. I’ll be fine, _you_ won’t be. Bed, now!”

Lance hurriedly dropped low, snaking under the sagging straw mattress. His head below the foot of the bed, he could barely see the front door, view a bit better if he dared shuffle closer, risking being seen. He could hear, though, as clear as a bell, when a thunderous pounding came on the creaking wood door, jostling it in its frame.

“Come on then, mage, you can’t play dead now! You know we saw yeh out in the glen!” The voice was deep, raspy, intoned with a slyness that warned of danger. Several more slamming knocks followed. Lance tried to make eyes at Keith, but the mage was knelt low by the door, cursing again as he swept a hand over the nearest candle. Its flame relit as he grabbed the stem of the candlestick and opened the door, as if politely welcoming a guest.

“What do you want, Sendak.” The way Keith’s eyes bore holes into the man, Lance couldn’t fully decide what the candle was being used for; providing light, or having on hand as a makeshift weapon.

The man at the door – well, he could barely be completely seen through the door, none the less _fit_ through should he try. Orange light and flickering shadow from the single flame did not seem to add nor remove the harshness of the man’s face. It was marred with scars and patches of scratchy stubble. His nose had clearly been broken a few times, his upper lip pulled on one side in a permanent sneer by a jagged, grotesque scar. A thick slice marred over his right eye, nearly sealing it shut but for a sliver of what appeared to be red beneath. His hair was dark with grease, a few streaks of grey revealing his age. Every part of this man was just too huge to fathom, beneath dirt spattered iron armor were arms like tree trunks, thighs the same. He looked like he could snap Keith in half with two fingers. Lance too.

“Out for a midnight stroll in the snow, was yeh? Not looking to stir up trouble, I hope. Though I reckon yeh found some.” The monstrous man chuckled through his thick Galran accent, then reached out and ran a meaty, leather clad finger along Keith’s jawline. Keith turned his face away with a sneer. There were chortles of four or five men behind the brute. A horse nickered, as if it too was laughing.

“Maybe I was. None of your business.”

“A’ course it is. The lads an’ I are in charge of this quart of woods. When we sees a dark and mysterious figure prancin’ about, we’s gotta investigate, haven’t we lads?” Affirmative laughter and whoops answered behind him.

Keith crossed his arms in front of his chest, still holding the candle. “ _All_ of you had to come?”

The Galra bent low through the doorframe, his mouth ghosting Keith’s ear. “They like to watch.”

Keith’s lips curled back in disgust, pressing the flame threateningly to the man’s chestplate. “That’s _not_ part of the deal.”

“Don’t be that way, now. You won’t humor an ol’ war hero and his lads with a bit o’ fun, to celebrate the Empire’s victory?”

Were all Galra so _massive?_ The last time Lance had met any he was but a child, brought along on a diplomatic meeting between kings, where one sips tea and exchanges pleasantries like you didn’t want to overthrow the shrew across the table. All adults looked gigantic from a six year old’s point of view, whether your own Altean father holding your hand or the hardened, wrinkled Galran emperor in the opposite chair. Surely, this man, this _Sendak_ – he had to be minumum six and a half feet in height, shoulders as wide as the door frame – that couldn’t be natural, could it? Were the men behind him just as large? Was Keith tiny by Galran standards? This knight was a _beast._

“Figures you hadn’t heard the news, hovelled up in the wilds.” The man continued his story. “Altean’s made a right ol’ announcement that their whore queen was sick. His Eminence finally gave the order to invade. Our forces plowed right through the border wall of the capital, made quick work of the castle. The Galra Empire doubled in size in one night! Can finally say we touch the Balmeran Sea!” His grin was sickly, snaggle-toothed and stained. Keith was likely breathing a current of rotten breath. “ _Vrepit Sa!_ ”

Keith’s crossed arms tightened, muttering a quick “ _Vrepit Sa._ ” in return. “I really don’t care, Sendak, unless the laws have suddenly changed on magic and I can move out of my hole in the ground –”

“Don’t cut me off, _kekše_.” The brute of a man laced steel in his tone, dropping a hand to pinch out the candle’s flame between two gloved fingers, as if reiterating the power he held.

“I wasn’t at the siege, or else the whole works a’ the Altean royal scum woulda been cut down, first priority. As is happens, none of the soddin’ idiots who _were_ there thought to ensure that. They lost the fuckin’ Prince. Let him slip right through their fingers. A patrol chased him into the woods, thought they was headin’ west, but most of the rot-brained fools got swept away in the river a few leagues back. Lost the bastard’s trail. I’m here tonight tryin’ to tie up loose ends. Haven’t seen nuthin funny last week or so, have ye boy? Nobody strange been skulking around these parts?”

“You’re the only one doing any _skulking_ around here, Sendak.”

One of the knight’s meaty, gloved hands grabbed a fistful of Keith’s inky hair, hauling the mage a few steps forward, tilting his head back to look the towering brute in the face.

“I don’t care for the attitude yeh always spit at me, _kekše._ ”

Keith looked straight into his muddy eye, challenging. “I seem to remember you get harder than stone when I put up a fight.”

A brief moment of tense pause between them, then the knight’s rotten teeth showed once more in a disgusting grin, his fingers loosening, but not releasing their hold at the back of Keith’s head. “Yeh know me well, mage. I’ll give yeh that.” The man ducked low at the shoulders, making to welcome himself inside the hut. “Since ye brought it up, how’s about we get to yeh payin’ your dues – “

“No!” Keith dropped the extinguished candle, both hands flat on that knight’s chest plate. “Not now. Not, not _right_ now – ” Keith struggled not to let his eyes wander to the bedroom. Lance sunk back beneath the bed, pulling further out of sight from the doorway, pulse thundering in his eardrums.

“An’ why not?” the beast growled, grip tightening once more in Keith’s hair.

“I’m busy, Sendak, just -” Keith gave a weak wave of his hand, the candles around the main room alighting with flame to show the cabin strewn with open books, pots of ink and writing quills, scrolls unfurled. It _did_ appear as if he was in the middle of work, if one was gullible.

“If you’re so busy, why were yeh strolling around outside in the moonlight?”

“Three days, alright? Give me three days.” Keith seethed through his teeth, both hands prying at Sendak’s, knotted in his hair. “Usual place, usual time. I’ll make it worth the wait.” Kohl rimmed eyes dared a glance through the open front door. Keith swallowed heavily. “T-They can watch.”

 _That_ was the kicker than had the knight releasing Keith’s hair, scarred smirk grimy with obvious intent.

“Pleasure doin’ business with yeh, _kekše._ ” Even through the thick layers of the mage’s cloak, the brute’s hand made a crisp snapping noise as he slapped Keith’s ass, with enough force to make Keith stumble.

“Just go.” The mage growled.

The knight ducked back out through the door frame, exiting Lance’s view. Indistinct murmurs of another language, what he assumed to be Galran, wafted from outside.

Amidst the chattering, laughing, and whinnies as horses were remounted, Lance heard the brute call one last “Don’t keep me waiting, _kekše_! Three days!” There was an eruption of hooves pounding away from the hut. Keith spit out the door in the squadron’s direction before slamming it with finality.

The fire in the hearth flared back to full life with a sudden roar, then all was quiet inside. Lance wiped the cold sweat from his brow, body soaked in perspiration and possibly in need of another bath. Gingerly, he crawled his way out from underneath the bed, readjusting his towel and padding softly to where Keith still stood, unmoving, by the front door.

Lance swallowed with a dry throat as Keith met his gaze, violet to azure. “I, uh…I don’t think he saw me. So…thank you. Again. You keep saving my ass.”

“Mmhmm.”

“This…this cabin’s not as hidden as you thought, huh?”

Keith closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Sendak’s the only one who knows about me. And his squadron, I suppose. But that’s it. I made – ” his eyes reopened. He sighed. “ _Shiro_ made a deal with him years ago. He used to be high up in the army, now he’s just a captain but his thirst for power never faded. Most of the forest is part of his patrol. He omits this place in his maps and reports, keeps my existence a secret.”

“And in return?” Lance feared he knew the answer already. Feared he’d deciphered what a _kekše_ was.

“I give him whatever he asks for. Whatever I have. Fresh game, potions, got me to enchant an axe once...”

Lance gave him a knowing glance. “And…yourself. You give him yourself.”

The mage scowled, but his eyes told all.

“Keith, that’s…that’s not right!” Lance clasped onto the lad’s shoulders with both hands. “You have magic! Tremendous power running through your veins! Can’t you just light him on fire? Smite him with lightening?”

“If I kill him and his squadron, they’ll just get replaced by a new one. One that might not make deals to keep a mage in hiding.”

“So this is how you live?” Lance was, truly, feeling little chips break away from his figurative heart. The mage had grown on him this past week, like a virus, or an aggressive fungus. Maybe a barnacle? Anyhow. Keith had nursed him back from the brink of death, and was finally opening up to Lance, becoming more friendly, more willing to – he’d almost – and now, to learn what such a warm soul did to survive in a world turned against him from birth…no wonder he came off so cold and guarded.

“I’m coming with you.”

“What?” Keith looked stunned. “No. No!”

“I’m not letting you go to him alone!”

“You don’t know anything about our arrangement, Prince. I meet him in a rundown tavern in the Lowland District of Var-Bakur. That’s the nearest city, and happens to be _second largest_ in the entire empire. I’m _hiding you_ to save your life, remember?”

“By endangering your own? I can’t let you do that Keith, you’ve already done so much for me -”

“So throwing yourself into a city of near one million people, _enemies_ , just to sit outside the door of a hovel while I’m f– ” he stopped himself, not meaning to say as much as he had, but remaining calm. “Even if you weren’t being hunted by every Galran in the empire, you coming along would change nothing. I have to deliver my end of a bargain which doesn’t involve you, that’s it.”

It wasn’t fair, but Lance knew Keith was right. Tagging along with the mage whilst he made pilgrimage to the city to receive a ripe fucking was useless. His presence wouldn’t change a thing, why had he thought it would? Despite logic, something ached deep in his gut, told him not to let Keith do this alone.

Without thought, Lance raised one hand from Keith’s shoulder to cradle the side of his face. Keith’s eyes flashed to the hand skeptically.

“How could this Shiro guy sell you into such a horrible deal?”

“He didn’t, I - ” Again, Keith stopped himself from what nearly slipped through his lips. “The deal has…changed, since Shiro made it with him. It was just for _things_ at first, food, potions. Like I said, I infused an axe with charms once – but as soon as Shiro left again, this most recent adventure of his, Sendak wanted more. He twisted the rules. I fought at first, believe me. I fought with everything I had.”

Keith’s voice stayed steady, calm, as if this story had been practiced and rehearsed until it brought no feeling with it anymore. Lance still thought he felt a faint tremble into his palm.

“Did you see his eye? That wound wasn’t from battle, that was _me._ But he holds my life in the palm of his massive hand, and he was always stronger than I was. One hand, that’s all he needs to pin down my whole body and just take what he wants, without any effort.”

Lance expected to see fire in Keith eyes, a rage not directed at Lance but one that still burned him – but he didn’t. Hearing him pour out his heart, Lance only saw exhaustion. Ache. Resolve. A sense that he had long since accepted his fate. “What was I supposed to do, Lance? Hm?”

Lance swallowed around hearing Keith finally call him by name.

“Keith,” The prince’s second hand mirrored its brother and held the mage’s face, drew him close. Their noses nearly bumped, foreheads pressed gently.

“Keith. Look at me, please.” Lance kept his voice low, slow, soothing. “How long has it been since Shiro was here last?”

Silence. Crackling and popping of wood in the fire place. The ease of slow breathing.

“About a year.”

 _A year._ Keith had been trapped beneath that monster for _a year._ Keith stated it like it was any simple fact, but those same words felt to have knocked Lance clean off his feet.

“I’m so sorry, Keith.” He muttered, lifting his face gently to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead, then pulling him close, wrapping bare, toned arms snugly around Keith’s frame. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll do everything I can to get you out of this, I swear. I’ll – ”

“Um…” He faintly registered the small noise from the mage.

 _Wait a second_ – Lance’s brain caught up to his actions.

WAIT.

He’d just done _WHAT??_

He thrust the boy outwards, held an arm’s length away. Now _Lance_ was the one blushing scarlet red. Keith looked a bit surprised, but not at all mad, nor nearly as embarrassed as Lance. After the horrible tale he’d just revealed to Lance, of being forced to spread and be used by that hideous knight – Lance was shocked that such an intimate touch hadn’t torn Keith into fear, disgust, anger -

“Woah, sorry, Keith, I, uh – ” the ever-suave prince cleared his throat, dropping his hold on the mage, both hands lowering unconsciously to fidget with the folded edge of the low strung towel.

He watched the mage silently raise a hand to his forehead, glancing a gentle touch to where Lance’s lips had pressed into his flesh. It was getting warmer in here, wasn’t it? Was the fire growing? Lance was leaning over a candle, wasn’t he? –

“Just, uh, forgot what I was doing for a second there. Sorry, again.”

Keith’s eyes were unreadable. He didn’t look upset, which was a relief, but Lance couldn’t be certain of anything else. He looked at his own pale fingers, those that had touched his own forehead after Lance’s kiss, as if inspecting them. Thinking. Was he judging, good touch or bad touch? When had Keith last ever been kissed? Was he remembering what it felt like? Was he –

Thoughts spinning madly, Lance didn’t register the sight of Keith reaching for him, the sight of fingers gripping the side of his neck, or the sight of Keith closing in. His eyes saw it all, but his brain did not recognize what was coming until he felt chapped, warm lips pressed tenderly on his own.

Lance’s brain finally kicked in to remind him to breathe after seconds more of Keith’s lips on his. He inhaled though his nose, wanting with every fibre of his being to kiss back, deepen it, pull on Keith’s hair and stick his tongue down his – but no. No, he reined himself in, scolding himself into behaving and not moving an inch, lest he frighten Keith away like a skittish, spotted fawn. He still couldn’t fully believe this was happening, to be completely honest, why would Keith _kiss him_ –

Keith pulled away, his lips creating a gentle wet noise.  His eyes were starry, warm candlelight reflecting in his dark pupils.

”Hm, that shut you up nicely.” Keith stated casually, as if reading a fun new fact in one of his dusty books. He turned away from Lance, making to begin tidying the opened scrolls on the nearby table. “Are you planning to redress, or shall you remain in a see-through towel all night?”

Gods Above, how did this man so easily steal all the words from his mouth and leave him speechless? _See-through towel?! Really?_

Keith felt urgency through the grip around his upper arm, baying him to turn back around. As he did, he felt as well a careful hand returning to cup his face, feather light.

“My clothes are still wet.”

His lips were met once more, warming against the Prince of Altea’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Porn-less, I know. Soon kittens, I promise. I know, I'm ashamed of me, too! I have failed as a porn provider! I just *clenches fist* I just love Fantasy AUs so much, I didn't want to cheapen it by throwing sex too soon where it didn't make sense in the storyline. Nothing worse than being really into a story and having something break the illusion and make you remember you were just reading and weren't actually there. As you can tell, I did some time skips to push things along as quick as I could so the porn can come soon! 
> 
> I love ya, kittens. Bear with me. Feed me reviews to keep me motivated? Follow me on tumblr @ sugarsweetrascal.tumblr.com? Yes? Yes.


	3. Chapter 3

_My Dearest Keith,_

_I hope this letter finds you without trouble. You can never be certain when relying on two-bit couriers. If I could afford to send a raven to ensure delivery, you know I would. I know how these letters bring you comfort._

_I am leaving Arus now, after months seeing the country side. I am near the border with Taujeer, I believe. A kind farmer and his wife have allowed me to sleep in their stable for the night. As I write to you now, I am nestled in a pile of clean straw, beneath their mare’s spare blanket. It is not without a slight chill, but I will make do. I yearn for the warmth of you, nestled at my side. I will sleep well tonight, imagining you are here in my arms._

_I wish to explore Taujeer well, if I am correct in my location. Her mountains are said to be breathtaking, and I hear her people have built cabins in the trees. I would like to see such a village. Perhaps we too could build such a home, high in the spruces and maples, should your hut ever give way to time and cave in. Sendak and his brutes would never think to look up as they patrolled._

_I have found you a present in Arus that I know you will enjoy; as shall I. I hope it does not seem selfish that it will bring me pleasure as well; you will understand when you receive it. I will not tell you what it is, as it lets me imagine your cute little scowl and reddened cheeks of impatience, waiting for my return to unwrap your gift. I will give you only one hint; I think it would go well with the garnet robes from the capital. I think of how you look wearing them when it is quiet and I am alone, and I find myself aching for your touch late into the night._

_This letter is long enough already; should I continue any longer, you may not have it finished by the time I have returned. I will be back at your side and in your bed before long. I pray you still await me._

_Forever yours,_

_Shiro_

 

Well, Lance thought, he was correct about where the Arusian oils came from.

He carefully folded the letter once more, tucking it away in its envelope and slipping back into the bedside drawer. Of the collection of letters from Shiro, that one was Lance’s favourite, rereading it several times over. It carried the most blatant insinuations, and burned Lance with further curiosity as to what this mysterious lover looked like.

Keith had been away since daylight broke, leaving much time for Lance to snoop through his things. The letters, his book and tomes, he’d even dared another search through the wardrobe. Keith had been gone from sunrise to sunset the past few days, in fact, making himself scare of Lance’s company. Avoiding the Prince? Lance certainly hoped not. He hadn’t seemed upset after their kiss, he’d even kissed back – was he regretting it now? Perhaps the end to his three days of peace loomed heavy in the mage’s mind, and they boy simply wished for some time alone. Lance’s couldn’t really fault him for that.

He grasped the curled handle of his candle’s holder and stood from the straw bed, shuffling into the hut’s main room, dimly lit by few other candle and the fire, dulled to barely a wisp of flame in the hearth. The sun had recently set, but the moon was tucked behind dark snow clouds this night, dampening the world outside black and frigid very early in the evening. Lance hushed his worry for the mage out in the cold darkness, telling himself that he was surely used to such conditions; a hardy lad of many skills whom could clearly fend for himself.

Lance plunked himself down in a wobbly kitchen chair, relieved to no longer need to sit funny or readjust his weight to favour an injured limb. He was completely healed, by his last inspection of himself. Could leave this cottage at any time. Once he’d figured out a way to sneak back into his own kingdom, organize a coup, and retake his castle. Yeah, that last part he hadn’t quite sorted out.

The prince pulled over a heavy, wrinkled tome of papers, opened to a dog-eared entry to the point of the corner tearing off; apparently an important page that the feisty mage revisited many times. Lance read through the description of the simple bewitching spell again, as he had multiple times in these three days by himself. The words to chant, simple gestures of hand and fingers, what colour light to expect to wisp between your palms. As with many of the spells and charms in this particular tome, it seemed easy enough to Lance, though he supposed he couldn’t truly gauge difficulty without possessing magic himself.

Most interesting were the scribbles and blots of ink on each bookmarked page. Symbols such as arrows pointing up, down, and diagonally, followed by shapes such as circles, zig zags and swirls. The occasional letters were scrawled, always making a short, simple word. Sometimes written by a smooth, measured hand, others by the same shaky, uneven lines as the symbols and arrows, made by an unsteady hand, needing practice. Child-like.

The longer Lance puzzled through the inky notes, the clearer it became to him; these were instructions. Diagrams to perform the charms and spells on these pages. But why? Instruction enough was given in the worn writing of the book’s author, clear and stepwise. Why would arrows and squiggles be needed as well?

_This letter is long enough already; should I continue any longer, you may not have it finished by the time I have returned._

Realization came abruptly.

Keith…didn’t know how to read. Or barely could, at best.

The shaky penmanship was likely Keith’s own, what with writing so very connected to literacy and therefore likely unfamiliar. The smooth handwriting must have been someone else’s…probably Shiro’s. The scribbles were Keith’s way of making his own instructions to cast the spells. Likely as Shiro read out the steps verbally, the mage fashioned this manner of making notes for future use, when Shiro wasn’t there to read.

Lance flipped through into deeper chapters of the tome, then pulled over other thick texts stacked at the table, fingering though them as well. The majority of the books were completely untouched by Keith’s scribbles, dusty pages noting spells and illusions Lance had never dreamed possible. Did Keith not know how to summon these magics, then? Was his talent limited to the few pages on which there was writing?

Lance found himself completely swept up in the ancient texts, mind swirling in both amazement and ever lingering unease. Some spells looked to be rather helpful for use in everyday life, while others told of dark, retched curses promising agony and chaos. The prince barely noticed long hours passing, his own long limbs unconsciously curling closer into himself as the fire’s last ember died and the frigid chill of frozen earth sunk through the hut’s walls. His vision went hazy and his eyes drifted to close, before shaking himself awake, deeply focused on the unknown world of magic unfolding in the pages before him.

When Keith returned, it was so late into the night that one might argue it was closer to morning. His black cloak was thickly snow-capped from the heavy falling flakes outside. Lance had folded into himself tightly at the table, breaths visible white puffs from both nostrils, eyes locked on the crumbling notes.

The mage kicked snow from the soles of his boots in the threshold, closing the door firmly.

“You couldn’t feed the fire?” Keith grumbled as he pulled off his cloak, a small spray of flakes fluttering to the floor as he tossed it to across the table. He was more than a bit annoyed to return to a frozen home when he’d expected a warm shelter after hours in the elements.

Lance finally broke out his own mind and gazed away from recipe before him, a potion to soothe seasickness. “Uh, no. There’s no more wood.” Lance gestured with a pointed thumb behind himself, signalling the mere scraps of bark and splinters left where a well stacked pile of firewood was normally stashed, snug between the stone side of the hearth and a thick, tall bookcase.

“I probably could have collected some, but you’ve forbidden me to step outside, and I couldn’t tell you how low we were getting since you’ve been away since dawn…”

Only one stubby candle remained lit, the rest long since burned to their ends, casting eerie shadows across the cabin. Though the light was dim, Lance caught sight of a small eye twitch beneath the mage’s smudgy kohl, fingers tightening in frustration as they curled into his own palms.

Ah. Must have had too much on his mind in these rapidly dwindling days of freedom. The mage had barely spent any time inside his own home and wasn’t the one keeping the fire going, therefore never noticed the rapidly dwindling stash as the days grew colder and more wood was needed to keep out the chill.

Another stiff moment between them, and the mage was cursing beneath his breath, grasping an unoccupied kitchen chair and lifting it, as if to drop and snap it over his knee to break apart.

“Woah, woah! Hey! Don’t do that.” Lance stood quickly, though stiff joints protested from sitting for hours, and grasped a chair leg, meeting eyes with the sorcerer. “Please don’t burn your belongings.”

“You wish to freeze tonight?”

“Can’t you just make a fire? With magic?”

“Without something to burn, no. It would take exuberant amounts of mana to keep an enchanted fire through the night. More than I have to spare.”

“Well…” Lance glanced quickly way, shadows casting over his features. “Then we keep each other warm. Join me in your bed, for once. I’ve already offered numerous times.”

As was growing increasingly common, Keith glared at him suspiciously.

“Look, we’ve little choice right now. You, especially, could use a good night’s sleep in your own bed.” Lance didn’t wish to bring up the long day’s walk Keith faced in the morning, so he kept silent from there. He noted faintly discernable purplish crescents beneath the smudged eye make-up, flickers of light making the mage’s face appear even gaunter and more exhausted than usual. Keith likely hadn’t slept well the last couple nights.

Keith’s eyes stayed locked on the prince’s, still unconvinced, as he set the chair down once more.

“You’ll find I’m an excellent bedmate, _wonderful_ cuddler. I practically exude heat. Have a feel!” Lance smiled playfully, grasping one of the mages gloved hands and placing it on his own arm, where the warmth of his tanned flesh seemed to seep out through his borrowed linen shirt.

Keith held back a gasp at the feel of delicious warmth against his frozen fingertips. He let his touch linger a moment more, mind wiped blank, before withdrawing his hand. “Fine. But we’re not _cuddling._ ”

“No promises.” Lance threw a cheeky grin.

After slipping away to change from his frozen clothing into simple linens, Keith begrudgingly allowed Lance into the bedroom, where the prince immediately hopped beneath the blankets of the bed, scooting to the side pressed against the wall to make room for the mage to join. Keith pulled the two remaining, tattered blankets from the bottom shelf of his wardrobe. Incidentally, this dislodged the gauzy ruby shift he’d hidden between them, which he shoved quickly away in hopes Lance hadn’t seen. He had, of course, and grinned wildly.

Unfurling the extra coverings over the bed, Keith paused in one last moment of hesitancy, before slipping beneath the blankets beside the Altean royal. It was a snug fit for two men on one narrow bed, just a few inches between them possible to remain separated, before Keith would tumble off the edge.

 Lance found his back firmly against the wall, laying on his side to face the mage. Keith immediately rolled on his side as well, facing away from the other. He looked to have wiggled as far apart from the prince as he could without falling onto the floor, intent on ignoring his presence.

Lance rolled his eyes at the lad’s stubbornness, threading an arm around the mage’s waist, pulling him back into his warm, awaiting chest.

A sharp jab from a bony elbow greeted Lance’s gut, along with a threatening look from over Keith’s shoulder. “I said _no cuddling._ ”

“The closer we are, the warmer we stay.” Lance argued, hair falling into his eyes, words still a visible smoke out his lips, extenuating his point. “In this cold a night, we need to press close as much of one other as we can, or risk still freezing.”

Keith turned away, muttering lowly, lips in a contrary scowl.

“By the Gods, _fine,_ I give up. Let go a moment and let me turn over, at least.”

“W…what, really?”

“If you’re going to cling to me like a possum all night, I’d prefer to awake seeing your face, not startling at being clutched by unknown arms.”

Lance, taking a moment to understand the sad reasoning for the boy’s request, easily loosened his hold. Keith wriggled himself around in the prince’s arms until he’d rolled over, facing Lance. The royal swallowed, smile a bit nervous as he retightened his embrace.

Keith squirmed his pale arms around Lance’s waist, mirroring the prince’s hold.

“No snuggling, huh?”

“You said press close as much as possible.”

“ _Mhmm,_ indeed I did _._ ” Lance’s grin returned to its regular confident level.

Their cores held snuggly together, Keith could feel the other’s body heat absorbing into his cooled flesh as it seemed to radiate out of the prince’s skin, despite layers of clothes between them. The pleasure of soothing heat melting into his limbs was undeniable, enviable, and despite himself, Keith thirsted for more.

Their breaths were visible clouds, ghosting into the tiny space between their faces.

“You’re really freezing, huh?” Lance hummed, feeling the shivering mage pull himself even tighter against his chest, chilled arms crossing behind the Altean’s back as if hugging a close friend. Soon the mage’s head had nestled below Lance’s chin, pulling himself completely flush against the other. Lance felt icy legs tangling with his own deep below the blankets, the mage searching for every inch of the prince’s warmer skin to siphon heat, despite protesting the intimacy of their closeness mere minutes before.

“How are you so _warm?”_ Keith grumbled, burying his face into the prince’s neck without considering how affectionate the gesture could be taken. Cold fingers clutched handfuls of the back of Lance’s tunic.

“Sorry, who’s the possum, again?” Lance chided, pressing his nose into dark locks, picking up hints of familiar jasmine bath oils. Keith grumbled a sleepy retort into his neck.

“Get some rest, Keith.” Lance pressed a chaste but lingering kiss into Keith’s hair, before sitting his chin atop the messy crown of raven locks and closing his eyes.

 

 

Alive and, thankfully, not frozen solid, Lance was stirred to wakefulness by the feel of Keith peeling himself away, trying to sneak out from under the blankets without waking him. A feat nye impossible when so much of their flesh was pressed tightly together, limbs intertwined. Gods, it couldn’t be morning already? His head throbbed dully, displeased with its scant hours of rest.

Lance remained beneath the thick coverings a few minutes more, dazed still from sleep, as Keith dressed modestly in his normal tunic and leather-like breeches, then left the room. The prince’s hand mindlessly felt across the cooling, empty half of bed, searching out the heat of his bed partner. As he rubbed sleep from his eyes a rolled out of bed, he tugged the topmost moth-eaten blanket off the mattress along with him, wrapping his thinly dressed form in the tattered drape and waddled over the cold wooden floor.

Keith had vanished from the cabin, and Lance’s heart sunk to his feet to think that he’d already left on his journey, without saying goodbye. A quick glance to the table, however, settled the knot in the prince’s gut, seeing the mage’s thick cloak was gone, but his favoured knife remained, something the lad would clearly never venture far without. Only minutes more passed and the splintering door creaked open, the mage slipping back into the hut with an armful of fallen, old wood and thin kindling. Something, at least, to burn.

Lance’s nerves mounted as the minutes passed, seeing the mage putter around the cabin, collecting that which he wished to bring along to Var-Bakur. A handful of coins, a wrapped portion of dried bread, a few trinkets likely worth something for trade, amongst other things shoved into the horsehide satchel he’d tied off his belt. He ducked into the bedroom briefly, returning with the bag faintly tinkling, the sound of coins against something glass.

“Have you even eaten?” Lance’s voice croaked, still rough with morning drought. Keith shrugged silently, as if not truly listening, distant in thought of the journey he faced, tucking a pair of knit mittens into his bag. Lance’s eyes followed him like a cat, crisscrossing the small space inside the hut, stomach clenching as it appeared the mage had gathered everything he needed.

He wanted to say something. Gods Above, what could one even say? Something encouraging? Wish him a safe trip? Beg him for the hundredth time not to go? He prayed hurriedly for any futile excuse to keep the mage home, with him.

His eyes caught the glint of light from morning sun, shining off the well sharpened blade of Keith’s dagger, laying temptingly on the table.

A hiss escaped though his teeth as he snatched up the knife, quick as a viper, and drew the blade with purpose across his palm. His skin split easily, blood trickling immediately down his wrist from the wound. The blade clattered onto the table as he clutched his hand into a fist, eyes slightly squinted in pain, and gazed at Keith.

The mage paused his pacing and scoffed with a roll of his eyes, cinching tight the pouch tied off his hip. He grasped his blackened staff where it leaned on the wall, stepping to the prince and clasping the lad’s wounded hand in his own. The ruby stone glowed beneath the spindle of twigs holding it at the staff’s head, as familiar green magic ebbed into Lance’s hand with molten pleasure in tow, sewing together the weeping gash of flesh. The mage’s mana was better controlled when filtered through his staff during spellcasting, Lance had read in the boy’s books, so the simple injury healed within moments of the green light blaring to life. Keith, as well, was not nearly as steeled in concentration as when healing wounds with just his hands. Lance wanted to whine childishly; it was over much, much too soon.

“Don’t do that again.” Keith mumbled, sharing a look with the prince. “You can’t make me stay by hurting yourself.”

“Worth a shot.” Lance gave a small smile, one he hoped was at least comforting to the mage. He knit the fingers of their clutched hands together, gripping tightly. “I still wish to come with you.”

The look he received was less curt and hard than he expected, in fact, the way Keith’s eyebrows slopped together just enough to take note, he looked perhaps…despaired?

“We’ve been through this, Prince, you can’t. You’d be captured in an instant. Don’t be foolish.” Keith made to pull his hand away, but found his fingers held snuggly in another comforting squeeze.

“I know, I know.” Lance brought their adjoined hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the mage’s knuckles where the tattered gloves ended and his milky fingers sprouted out. “Please be safe.”

Keith broke away his eyes, as if the pitiful look Lance gave was more than he could handle. He set the staff against the wall once more and reclaimed his dagger, tucking it into the back of his belt after wiping the royal’s blood onto the leg of his pants.

“Your healing is completed.” He murmured quietly, trying to pull his hand away once more, eyes looking anywhere except to Lance. “You should leave before I return. Go back to you kingdom, get your revenge, return to your lavish life. Keep your end of our bargain and forget about me. Never come back.”

 _“Keith.”_ Lance’s voice dropped in tone, eyes swimming, gleaming with heart. “I could never do such a thing when I know now of the trap you’re caught in!” His second hand came to cradle the mage’s face, which sparked the lad’s eyes to finally rejoin the prince’s.

“I beg of you, let me stay a chance longer. I will find a way to break your contract with that bastard knight, as well as plan how to sneak back to Altea and start a rebellion. I – ” He clutched both Keith’s hand and cheek firmer at the sudden idea. “I will teach you to read.”

Dark violet eyes widened in revelation. “How d-? – You – ”

Pulse drumming beneath his ribcage, Lance’s heart got the best of his brain as he surged close, fingers from the boy's jaw barely sliding back into hair before his lips sealed over Keith’s.

 

 

A distant whinny had Keith startle out of his own mind, lost in thought as he trekked through the trees, branches hanging slightly low with the weight of ice, sprinkled with the winter’s first snowfall. He halted his steps across the white powder, coldness seeping through worn spots in his tall black boots, letting hints of the cold seep through to his toes.

The gentle thrum of galloping hooves grew in volume, and soon the vision of a bulky chestnut mare strode towards him down the wintery forest path, a tall, broad, iron clad rider on her back. Keith grumbled to himself at the sight of the knight he’d hoped not to encounter on his way to Var-Bakur. Sendak would sometimes send one of his lackeys by horseback to gather Keith and bring him more swiftly to the city, though occasionally the brute’s generosity did not extend in such a manner, and Keith hiked the entire day-long journey by foot. Though his legs protested at the long, uneven walk, today Keith wished to be as undisturbed as possible on his journey, mentally preparing for what faced him at the end of this road.

The knight galloped clean past Keith, circling wide around the mage a few times, spirals of hoof prints in the snow. Then he cantered his horse up to the lad’s side, pulling taut on the reigns to halt the mare.

The beastly man’s hair was a mousy brown, slightly curled at the ends by the amount of grease and grime in his locks, his slimy smile just as skin crawling.

“Good morrow, little mage.”

“Haxus.”

“Fancy a ride, eh?” The knight sneered at his own double entendre.

“I’d rather walk.” Keith continued on, eyes set forward, not deigning the knight any courtesy by looking his way. The knight kept up easily, the mare’s long legs barely stepping to keep in time with the mage.

“Come now, don’ be like that. The captain sent me to fetch yeh, wouldn’t be too happy if I came back empty handed.” He extended a hand down low from the horse, beckoning the mage to take it. “Letcha ride in front, I will.”

“No thanks.” Keith proceeded in neglecting the man, continuing to look straight ahead as he quickened his pace, not that the horse couldn’t easily do the same.

“Contrary ‘til the end, ain’t yeh?”

Keith didn’t care enough to reply.

“Suppose that’s why the captain likes yeh so much. Don’t give in easy, do yeh?”

Again, Keith gave nothing in return but silence, hoping the knight would take a hint.

“Look now, don’t make me get off me horse, _kekše_.” Haxus’ tone was harder, threaded with warning. Keith’s fingernails bit into the leather of his gloved palms, biting back from snarling at the derogatory pet name.

All at once, Keith’s feet were off the ground and his breath was momentarily choked from his throat as the knight grasped into the collar of his cloak and shirt. With a strong arc of his arm, he lifted Keith from the snowy path and pulled him up onto the mount, strewn across the knight’s ironclad thighs on his belly. Keith grunted at the rough landing, spread across the man’s lap as if preparing for a spanking. He struggled to pull himself into a better position, jostled with each cantering step as the horse began a steady pace.

After minutes and awkward clambering, Keith managed to swing a leg over the horse and sit properly, growling low and glaring over his shoulder at the sneering knight. The man pulled Keith closer with a thick hand on the mage’s hip, snuggling Keith’s backside into his groin firmly. With each step from the mare, Keith’s ass was jostled against Haxus’ crotch. The knight snapped the horse’s reigns with one hand, the other keeping Keith tight to him, and the horse sped into a full gallop, bouncing her riders more harshly, a firm growth becoming evident rubbing into Keith’s ass.

“Always thought about havin’ yeh all to meself, out here, before I bring yeh to the captain.” The knight lowered his head, pressing his face into the material of Keith’s hood, lips ghosting the fabric to tickle the iron rings up the boy’s ear. “Captain wouldn’t have teh know.”

“He’d figure it out when my hole gushed seed around his fingers.” Keith added dryly.

A worn leather glove clutched hard onto Keith’s jaw, squishing his cheeks almost comically.

“Could still use yer mouth, then. No mess if yeh swallow like a good little whore.”

“My deal is with Sendak, not you.” Keith pulled his face out of the hold. “I would bite your prick clean off.”

“Ah. Just have teh break yer jaw first, now won’t I? Many thanks for the warning.” Grin still filthy on his face, Haxus raised his hand off the boy’s hip to wrap the arm around his waist, keeping Keith snug against him. The subject seemed dropped, at least for now. Keith’s eyes burned holes into the trees ahead of them, cursing and planning the painful demise he wished on the knight, on them all, while the man’s bulge dug into his ass with each trot.

 

 

Lance waited in the doorway, near nauseated, for the sight of Keith to disappear from the glen and into the treeline beyond. He was really gone. Left. Trusting Lance to stay put.

He swallowed, and delved back into the cabin.

Lance’s frantic energy poured out in the form shaky hands and feet tripping over each other. He tore through the cabin like it was on fire and he searched to save an heirloom from the flames. A door nearly snapped clean from the hinges of the wardrobe and he tossed apart the stacks of clothes, pulling on a patched, ragged cloak of - black? Perhaps a midnight blue – not heavy enough truly for the winter’s chill, but a covering nonetheless. A second, larger tunic was donned for an extra layer, likely another of the mysterious Shiro’s. Lance stole whatever extra clothes he could to face the journey ahead, including mittens, layers of socks, and a scarf, tied tightly to cover the lower half of his face. A shield from the wind that also served to disguise his face.

Pockets filled with Keith’s few remaining coins and a little food, Lance’s fingers tapped unsurely beside the pot of kohl left open on the writing desk. He’d never worn such blackened makeup in his days at court, but now dipped three fingers into the ash and swiped them in thick lines, diagonally across both eyes until he met the top edge of the scarf. It looked, Lance grimaced, like some sort of dour war paint, but it masked his appearance all the same. He scrambled for anything that might veil his appearance. After the scarf and makeup, Lance would also keep his hood up as much as possible, hair tugged out of its usual ponytail to mask his pointed ears.

Hut still tossed to shambles, Lance pulled open the heavy oaken door and stepped outside, for the first time since his arrival. The air was crisp, cutting, but clean. A few clouds blurred the sky, but the winter sun still shown enough for light to bounce off the snow blindingly. As long as the wind didn’t pick up, Lance told himself, he had Keith’s footprint trail in the snow to follow.

And follow he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late once again. I fell seriously ill. (Pro tip: if you're vomiting black, go to the hospital)
> 
> Please follow me at sugarsweetrascal.tumblr.com. Ask box always open. I love asks/questions/prompts! Please. Dear God please.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Dub-Con. Please read the tags and note the rating increase to Explicit.

Keith’s bare knees dug painfully into the splintered wood floor. Stripped naked at the snap of Sendak’s fingers, mere moments after being shoved into the rented room. Two of Sendak’s men had been inside already, the rest of his motley squadron following from downstairs in the tavern proper. Upon seeing Haxus drag the mage through the tavern’s front door and up the stairs behind the bar, they all quickly abandoned their mugs, intent not to miss the show they’d been promised.

His throat burned and stuck together, dry and parched as all his saliva coated the thick, veiny cock shoved far between his lips. A tight grip in the back of his inky locks controlled the bobbing of his head back and forth on Sendak’s length, Keith’s only sense of control in the use of his hands, braced against the giant knight’s thighs. He gripped sharply into the sweaty flesh as warning when he felt he might pass out when the fat head sealed off his airway too long, or shoved so deeply he felt bile rise in his throat.

Sendak’s rough handling of the mage had subtly increased its tempo in time, his hips rising slightly off the creaky mattress as he thrust into the lad’s mouth. Keith’s jaw ached with overuse when the knight pulled his head away, fully withdrawing from his mouth as Keith gasped air hungrily, free of the foul obstruction.

Sendak groaned, head gently lolling back but eyes firmly locked on the dishevelled mage on the floor between his knees. His prick throbbed visibly, enraged and begging for release, so close to orgasm before forcing himself to withdrawn. He revelled in the sight below him, the mage’s pupils blown wide, breaths coming heavy out his throat and reddened, split lips lightly grimaced at the tight hold still clutching his hair.

Keith drew a hand back from Sendak’s leg, raising it to wipe away the string of precome he felt drip down his chin from the corner of his mouth. Within a moment his wrist was grabbed, stopping him, head craned back painfully by the grip in his hair.

He was always like this. Sendak seemed to get off on coating Keith with as much of his cum as possible, marking the places he used in a trail of semen, letting it dry and accumulate as if to keep a tally.

“You’re disgusting.” Keith croaked. The knight peeled open a vulgar smirk.

 

 

He had tried to keep calm when Keith’s footprint trail stopped abruptly, marled by a swirl of hoof prints in the fine layer of snow. Someone must have come for him, Lance reasoned. The knights. The horse’s trail thankfully still lead to Var-Bakur, and therefore so did Lance’s. The 'Lowland District' Keith had described was certainly and understatement to what Lance had imagined. A little swampy, sure, Lance expected the poorest sector of the city to be situated on the poorest swatch of land, but to be built up from an actually marsh? Ugh. His boots would never be dry again.

All of the tightly packed, poorly kept buildings appeared to be in various states of sinking back into the bog beneath them. Some leaned at precarious angles as one side sunk more quickly into the myre than the other. Children of all ages scurried about and played in the streets, mothers chastising and chasing them down. Strings of laundry criss crossed to and from windows across the narrow alleys, clearly showing inhabitation within the rotting structures, as if the washing lines aided to hold the towering, slanted buildings together above ground.

There was a hitch in the prince’s plan that had him bite his lower lip and furrow his eyebrows, glancing blindly up and down each muddy street. The Lowland District was massive, overcrowded, and evidently dirt poor. In such dire, dreary livings, many turned to the sweet release of drink. Every few sagging buildings seemed to house a tavern on its bottom floor.

Lance had not a sliver of a clue as to which one held his mage.

 

 

“Up,” was all the brute managed to grunt, pulling roughly on Keith’s trapped wrist. Keith struggled up off his knees as he was tugged onto the bed. Once all his limbs were on the mattress, he was shoved face first into the wall at the head of the bed, pinned to the chipping mortar by the giant’s wide hand between his shoulderblades. He turned his head to the side to avoid breaking his nose, seething as teeth dug into the flesh of his shoulder whilst grubby fingers parted his lower cheeks, prodding at his dry entrance.

Keith braced both hands on the wall, glaring over his shoulder. “I brought oil. Pouch on my belt.”

Sendak withdrew his teeth from Keith’s flesh, gesturing with a nod for one of his lackeys to search through Keith’s belongings, clothes still strewn across the floor where they were unceremoniously thrown in stripping him. A ruddy cheeked man fished through Keith’s things and pulled out a rose coloured glass vial, bringing it to his captain as ordered. His eyes were locked on Keith’s exposed entrance, Sendak holding his cheeks apart for all to see.

Keith bit his lip and ignored the pang deep in his gut, seeing Sendak pull the flask’s stopper out with his teeth. He hated himself for using Shiro’s special oil, for _this._ But he was without choice, run out of his cheap, scentless oil the last time they’d met to _pay dues_ , and knowing the despicable knight wouldn’t care to bring any lubrication for Keith.

The sweet smells of Shiro’s oil were released, and Sendak poured the cool liquid directly down the cleft of Keith’s ass, letting it seep over his hole and further down, dripping off his testicles and flaccid cock. He was wasting most of it, emptying the precious vial over Keith’s skin. He swiped fingers through some of the excess dripped on the sheets, and swiftly shoved a thick finger into Keith.

The mage grunted at the blunt entrance, Sendak pushing further and forcing his wetted finger up to the last knuckle with little time for Keith to adjust. Always rough, hurried, careless. Keith was simply a hole to be fucked. He withdrew to his dirt-caked fingernail and shoved back in, then repeated in quick succession. Keith grimaced as a second meaty digit forced past his tight ring, dragging against his inner walls despite the slick oil coating them. Keith peeled open an eye, having not noticed he’d squinted them shut, and snarled at the sight of the haggard, dirty squadron of knights watching the display intently, like hungry dogs licking their chops.

Sendak took notice of the mage’s hateful gaze, sneering cruelly. “The lads’ are some pleased to be watchin’ yeh in the flesh, _kekše._ Awful frustratin’ just to hear yer screamin’ and cryin’ through the door each time, just imaginin’ how good yeh look fucked open.”

A third finger crammed its way inside, and Keith gasped a ragged whine from his throat.

 

 

Lance tugged down on the rim of his hood, nervously licking dry lips beneath his scarf mask. The tavern’s main bar room was uncomfortably warm and thick with smoke and sweat. Crooked wax candles spat dim lighting as Galrans of various sizes and states of inebriation drank deeply, swore and laughed loudly, drowning out the two aged looking bards playing broken stringed lutes by the hearth.

He’d swiped a mug of mead from a heavy set, soot-crusted man; a blacksmith he wagered. The portly drunk was distracted by both the alcohol drowning his brain and the large breasted tavern girl he’d pinned beneath him on the wooden booth’s bench, rutting wildly with heavy grunts as she giggled and shrieked.

Lance nursed the foul brew between his hands, after daring to pull up the scarf for a quick swig and nearly spitting it back out. He’d picked an empty chair at the table in the corner, observing the action all around him with a sweeping, kohl smudged gaze, praying he was blending in.

It wasn’t much longer before he shoved the mug of swill across the table and stood. This had been the fourth tavern he’d entered. They all seemed the same on the inside, slight differences only in how much mortar was cracked off the walls, or level of stench by how many drunks had already pissed themselves on the floor. Most importantly, though, none appeared to have any door at the back leading to a private area, nor any stairs indicating a second floor where rooms might be rented. Couldn’t be the place, and there was no time to waste.

He slipped through the cluster of standing – or more appropriately, swaying – guests around the bar. He kept his gaze low, movements quick, and made it out the door without a curious glance in his direction. Quiet, cautious, unsuspicious, he told himself.

The sharp winter’s air of the street was barely any ‘fresher’ than the thick malodor inside, heavy with the smell of mud, shit, and too many people. 

On to tavern number five.

 

 

Keith bit into the sheets, holding on for dear life. A heavy hand clutched the back of his neck, pinning his upper body to the mattress firmly whilst his ass was held sky high, pounded wildly with thrusts that shook both him and the groaning bed.

His fingers gripped for purchase in the threadbare sheets. The sharp motions of the colossal knight’s bucking hips rattled through Keith. The fetid, pulsing cock slid wetly as it was stuffed inside again and again. The slurping of wet friction between oiled phallus and hole was sickening. The beastly size of Sendak’s body was matched in the girth of his cock, stretching the mage near to tearing. Keith begged for it to be over quickly this time, feeling the blunt tip stabbing further inside of him at unthinkable depth. He prayed that Sendak would finally go too far; maybe his insides would simply rupture and kill him.

A wide hand slapped ferociously on Keith’s rear, force enough to bruise, a shock of pain shooting up Keith’s spine. After a squeeze to the welting flesh, Sendak’s hand returned to its hold on Keith’s hip, pulling the boy back to meet his thrusts for maximum depth. It wasn’t long before the hand left again, delivering another sharp crack to his ass.

Keith pinched his eyes tightly closed. Though the slaps stung like a devil, Keith felt relief begin to wash over him. When Sendak starting hitting him, he was close to blowing his load.

The squadron of knights was scattered about the room, watching in various states of interest versus jealousy. Some stood and shuffled on their feet as their pants pulled too tight, others sat awkwardly on rickety chairs or the floor as they watched the display. A couple knights made no qualms about removing a gauntlet and delving a hand into their trousers, getting off shamelessly in a room full of others.

“Haxus.” Sendak grunted, delivering a particularly rough thrust.

The mousy hair knight gulped thickly, fearing the call-out meant punishment coming. He retracting his hand from his loosened breeches and stood from his chair.

“Y-Yes, Capt’n?”

“C’mere, lad.” Sendak gestured for the man to come closer. The handsy night stepped towards the creaking bed, eyes flicking between his captain and the boy he pounded into the mattress.

“Haxus, lad. What think yeh, hm?”

“What do yeh mean, captain, sir?”

“Takes a cock good and proper, don’t he?” Another slap against Keith’s ass. He flinched against the hit, skin starting to rub raw against the sheets with each thrust.

“Looks so, sir.”

“Enjoyed the view, did yeh? Watchin’ had yeh hard in yer trousers?” Sendak’s voice was rough on the edges with exertion, not faltering in his rhythm as he conversed so casually.

“Aye sir.” Keith glared up as best he could from his face buried in the sheets, eying the captain’s second in command as he flushed scarlet, fearing penalty for jerking it at the display. The slimy knight wasn’t so brave about his desires to be insubordinate when face to face with his leader.

Suddenly the hand holding Keith’s neck down slid away, gripped a shoulder, and hauled up. The giant sat back on his heels and drug Keith along with him, sat in his lap and onto his cock deeply. A cry tore out from the mage’s throat as he was impaled on Sendak’s girth, his own body weight used against him. A hand once again curled around the bony prominence of his hip, lifting the mage off his swollen length and spearing him back on. The other gripped his neck again, now wrapping around to hold from the front, thick fingers clamping around his throat and bringing a hint of impedance to both breath and blood flow.

Keith gaped like a fish on dry land, hands clawing at Sendak’s grip round his neck. The cock was so deeply embedded up his ass, it felt like it had skewered him completely and would pop out his mouth. Still, Sendak thrusted.

“There, ‘bove his cock.” Sendak grunted once more, pouring the remnants of his stamina into fucking the boy delirious. “Have a feel.”

A third hand touched him, and Keith glared sharply at knight who’d fondled him in the woods. Haxus’ hand was dewy with precome from jerking off, stickiness warm between his palm and Keith’s abdomen.

The knight’s eyes nearly popped from his skull, feeling the shape of his captain’s cockhead bulging through the mage’s flesh with each deep thrust, plainly _above_ his navel.

“Yeh feel yer captain, lad? See how deep yeh can fuck into this one?”

“A-Aye, s…sir…” Haxus cast his eyes down and away from his captain, biting his lip fiercely, as Sendak grinned knowingly.

“Take note, lads, the lot of yeh.” Sendak rumbled out, garnering the eyes of all in the room. “Yeh follow orders an’ do as yer told, yer generous captain might let yeh have a go. Ain’t that right, _kekše?”_

Keith gasped and choked under Sendak’s tightening grip, watching Haxus’ face scrunch up and a moan spew from deep in his chest. Feeling the cock bumping against his palm through Keith’s belly, the second in command came in his breeches. Like captain like soldier, Sendak followed soon behind.

Keith seethed and threw back his head, as if he could wriggle away from the pulses of heat shooting deeply inside him. He was too full, felt he might split open at any moment as the gushes of the giant’s seed filled every crevice his cock could not.

Sticky fingers gripped into his hair, and suddenly Keith’s anguish was smothered by sloppy lips crushing against his own. Haxus tried to kiss him, mushy and blissed out and apparently feeling _romantic_ after creaming his pants, nearly missing Keith’s mouth. With messy technique and over eager tongue, Keith fought off the slobbery onslaught, gooey fingers curling roughly into ebony locks in attempt to hold him still.

Keith sacrificed his hold on the hand at his throat, striking and shoving off the man in front of him.

Were these bastards ever satisfied?

 

 

Lance knew he’d finally found the right place. But he also knew he’d come too late.

He’d been itching to leave the umpteenth tavern of the evening, sliding out from his corner booth, stolen drink cast aside. It was one of the rowdiest establishments he’d visited that night, with a massive crowd gathered at the bar top as two men arm wrestled for coin or dominance or something equally foolish, the crowd cheering and chanting loudly as they placed bets and drowned themselves in drink. A group of farmers sat near the lone minstrel in the corner, the bard’s song inaudible over the raucous. It wasn’t long before the dirt crusted worked found something to fight about, and the previously peaceful customers started an all-out brawl over the table, steins and playing cards flying everywhere. Some of the bar crowd moved fights, placing bets on the farmers instead.

To say the least, the place was deafening. Which explained how Lance’s heart leapt to his throat but stomach plunged to his feet when he saw them. A trail of massive, brutish men, ironclad and hulking, saunter heavily down the rickety staircase Lance hadn’t noticed behind the bar. Nearly ten giants in total, snickering and gesturing to one another before trudging out the front door, sharp winter wind blustering a gust of snowflakes inside.

He wouldn’t have been certain it was them, until last of the group came the captain, long hair slick with grime, one eye marred with a grisly gash. Gods Above, he hadn't heard them up there over the din.

The longest moments of the prince's young life were spent frozen, half standing out of his seat, until the beastly captain had completely exited the tavern. Lance wanted to bolt across the cramped room and hurl up the stairs, but he knew it would be suspicious. The patience it took to casually slink through the horde of drunkards was astounding. As soon as he met the bottom rung of stairs, he glanced around briefly. All present appeared thoroughly occupied, even to barkeep himself, tending too many jeering hands to notice someone entering the inn portion of his business.

There were several floors above the bar, each with a few inn rooms. Many had open doors, showing made-up beds without occupants. One door was shut on the second floor, but a quick ear to the door revealed a girlish moaning and giggling Lance knew would _not_ be Keith.

On the third floor, a door was neither shut tight nor wide open, but swung somewhere in between. Lance glanced through the opening, eyes trailing over the path of familiar clothes strewn on the floor. In the light of a near exhausted candle, pale limbs were tangled, face down and unmoving.

Lance slipped through the door, shutting it carefully behind him. He tugged down the scarf and dashed to the bedside, cloak swishing behind him.

“Keith!” He kept his volume low but his tone showed urgency, hands stuttering to find a place to grip the mage and turn him on his back. Nowhere looked particularly safe to grab. What wasn’t mottled, welted or bitten was splattered with…uh…

He rolled the boy carefully, gentle fingers combing the hair out of Keith’s face. The mage stirred, little grunts bubbling from his throat.

“Keith, I’m here.” Lance leaned over the bed, mindlessly petting the side of Keith’s face to rouse him. Eyes blinked out from their smeared rings of kohl, dazed for a moment before locking onto the man above. Keith’s lips pulled into a puzzled look.

“Who…” Keith made to pull away from the prince’s touch, utterly confused at the strange man with stripes of black across both eyes. “W…Lance? _Lance._ ”

“Yes!” Lance smiled, finding one of the mage’s hands to grasp, bringing knuckles to his lips. “It’s me, I’m here, Keith.”

“No, I…” Keith began to sit up, Lance helping him to do so. “I told you not to come. Why are you here?”

“And I told _you_ , I couldn’t bear the thought of this. But I couldn’t find you in time. I was too late.”

“Lance…”

“I’ve failed you, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re an _idiot._ ” Keith’s voice was cracked and dry, the look he threw the prince even more so. “You could have been caught.”

Lance felt the corner of his mouth curl in a sheepish grin. “Apparently some make-up and a scarf is all it takes to infiltrate the empire. That, or you Galra can’t recognize the beauty of royalty when you see it.”

Lance slipped away as Keith rolled his eyes, exasperated with the prince already. He strode quickly to the wash basin he’d spotted across the room, dunking a cloth from a stack of linens beneath into the mostly-clean water and wringing it. He returned to Keith, clambering onto the bed beside the weakened mage.

He wiped down Keith’s face with the damp cloth, and the boy seemed to melt into the feeling of grime and Gods know what else being rubbed away. The mage made no protests when Lance carefully washed off the black smears around his eyes, folding the cloth multiple times to find a clean edge and continue.

When he finished, the rag was utterly soiled, and Lance saw Keith’s entire face for the first time. The kohl had made his eyes look so much smaller than they were, long lashed and faintly angled, large and shining like baubles staring up at Lance. His irises were easily seen to be a rich, dark amethyst, bordering on a hue of blue.

“I…” Lance struggled with what to say, seeing the mage so open. He looked naked without the kohl shading half his face, nearly as naked as he actually was. Uh, right. “I’ll get a new cloth.”

He danced away and returned with a fresh rag. Keith adjusted himself awkwardly as Lance began to bathe the rest of him.

Lance was surprisingly tender, Keith thought, not expecting a pampered prince who’d likely received all the baths and never given one. His actions were thorough, a bit clumsy, but careful, especially over each blooming bruise and bite mark. He’d offered to take over, but the prince assured him he didn’t mind, telling him to save his strength.

When all was clean above the waist, Lance scooted down the bed, sat between Keith’s legs, restarted at the feet and worked up. Meeting the root of both legs, Lance glanced up to Keith for reassurance. Keith looked away, looked up, but finally looked back down and nodded softly.

“Tell me if you wish me to stop.” Lance gave a reassuring smile, leaning to the side slightly and laying a kiss on a knee bent up and framing him. “I’ll be gentle.”

And so he was, with tender, slow strokes between Keith’s legs and around his cock. This area was hardest hit as far as fluids went, of course, but Lance kept his scrubbing delicate, eyes always flitting up to the raven to gauge discomfort. He let Keith know he would need to lay flat on his back and lift his legs, then aided him in doing so, carefully holding up a thigh to access his rear. Lance wiped over his swollen, battered entrance with caution, then did it again. And again. As if it wasn’t working.

“Keith,” Again, Lance’s eyes met his over the plane of his own body. “You’re bleeding.”

Keith looked away quickly, lips quirked down with a hint of shame.

“It doesn’t hurt.” A lie. Half of one, at least. It wasn’t _actively_ hurting, but his insides throbbed wildly.

Setting down the rag, Lance reached up though folded legs and grabbed one of Keith’s hands, tugging it down to his own core.

“Heal yourself.” Lance attempted to press Keith’s palm against his entrance, but Keith made to pull it away. Lance clutched around his wrist. “Keith, please.”

“I’m fine, I’m…” Keith argued stubbornly. “I’m used to it.”

“ _Keith._ ” Lance groaned, threading a sturdy tone into his words. “I cannot tell where inside the blood is coming from. You could be very injured. So just use the damn spell, alright? For me? For my peace of mind?”

By the Gods, why did this boy _care_ about his wellbeing? It had been so long since someone _cared_. Keith found himself rebelling against it on instinct, long since building walls around himself to shield from people _caring_.

But the Altean prince threw a solid, no nonsense look from between his legs, certainly regal and commanding as a leader should be. It sparked the ache of loss deep in his gut, when the lover he craved and missed so dearly would use the same tone for similar situations of Keith's bull-headedness. Keith asked himself why he even bothered to fight.

He allowed the prince to hold his palm flat against himself, closing his eyes to focus on the healing aura, the memorized words he chanted in his head. He felt the stripes of magic tickle and curl down his veins and seep from his palm, soaking through his aching hole and massaging the walls within.

Emerald glowed beneath Keith’s hand where Lance held it down. Within moments, the mage released a high, breathy groan that shot ruby from Lance’s cheeks to the tips of his pointed ears. Keith’s thigh pulled out of the prince’s hold and both legs wrapped around his waist, toes curling. Keith’s head tilted back as another moan peeled out of split, swollen lips.

He was starting to think Keith had lied; this spell felt just as good to do to yourself.

By the Gods, he was _ravishing,_ strung out in bliss, spine arching back, mouth dropped open. Strong legs curled around him and pulled him in, but Lance fought, did he _ever_ , to keep space between his hips and the mage’s, despite the legs attempting to pull them tightly together.

_This isn’t for you, this isn’t for you. He’s healing himself. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Keep a distance. _

Lance thought perhaps the mage was finished, when he felt the tendons in Keith’s wrist flexing. Nope. Not at all. The raven lifted his flattened palm away just to shove two luminous fingers inside himself.

“Keith!” Lance’s voice crackled nervously, wondering if the mage somehow forgot he was present. He tried not to watch but _Merciful Lords_ , he pumped his glowing fingers and reached deep inside himself, words merely breaths on his lips. It was an agonizing few seconds more, then the green aura faded away, and Keith withdrew his fingers, quickened breaths slowing back to normal. Lance gave a glance southwards, and saw that the trickle of blood had indeed ceased, though a trail of milky, pink streaked essence followed Keith’s fingers upon exit. Well. It least it worked.

Lance hastily grabbed the rag and cleaned off Keith’s fingers and hole. Keith propped up shakily on his elbows, looking at Lance’s bewildered expression.

“Hey, I said I was fine. _You_ begged me to do it, remember?”

“I didn’t think you react like _that_.” Lance cleared his throat and took a good, steadying breath. “You’re healed up, and that’s what’s important. Now get some rest.”

“No,” Keith pushed himself to sit up fully, though it looked to take most of his energy. “I’m not staying here.”

“It’s the middle of the night and absolutely freezing.” Lance rationed. “The journey home will have to wait ‘til morning.”

“I’m not staying here, in this room, in these _sheets_.”

“Ah.” Lance gazed quickly to the spoiled linens around and beneath them both. He didn’t question any further. “Fair point. Most of the rooms here are vacant, doors wide open. Can you walk?”

“I would crawl if I had to.” Keith grimaced, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and wincing openly. Lance scrambled to his feet and aided the boy to stand, guiding the still naked mage to the hall and into the next room before returning to gather his scattered clothes.

Settled in the (relatively) clean sheets, Lance helped Keith tug on his clothing. Though not the most comfortable sleeping attire, he figured it would gift the mage a small comfort of privacy he’ been stripped of so thoroughly that night.

When they finished, Lance untied the cape from around his neck and laid it over the blankets, an extra layer against the cold that threatened outside. The crooked building creaked ominously in the strong winds that whipped across the flat marshland.

Keith looked up at Lance with an eyebrow quirked, tunic undone and hanging off one creamy shoulder.

“You can get in, you know.” He said plainly. Lance looked surprised.

“Oh, uh. You’re certain?”

“It’s a cold night without a fire. Body heat, yes?”

Lance felt a little grin roll across his lips. He toed off his borrowed boots as Keith wiggled over to make room, sliding beneath the coverings, already warm from Keith.

Keith was staring at him with a lidded gaze, rolled on his side to face the prince. Lance cleared his throat and mirrored him.

“Look, it’s not nearly as cold as last night in the cabin. We’ll stay warm enough as we are now. Considering what you’ve been through tonight, I understand if you’d rather not –”

Slender fingers smoothed down his arm, tugging Lance's wrist over to drape the arm around the boy’s waist. Keith did the same to hold the prince. As with the night before, Keith snuggled in close to the heat Lance emanated, tucking his head beneath the royal’s chin, face pressed in the dip of his neck.

Lance was stunned a moment more, then tightened his embrace around the mage. “Well, alright then.”

“He does not hold me.” Keith murmured into Lance’s collar bone, his own arms clenching snuggly as well. “That bastard knight uses me, strikes me, harms me. He may grab and pull, but he does not hold. When he’s finished, he leaves.” Then, more like an admission to himself, he added, “…I should not fear being held by another.”

Lance’s little princely heart swelled in his chest. Keith had lived through so much in his young life, enough to reason repulsion or even fright at the touch of another. Yet beneath his towering walls and sharp tongue, he found comfort still in the warm, securing arms of another. Lance was currently that ‘other’. Gods Beyond, it was an honour.

Lance settled quickly into sleep, unbeknownst that Keith, tucked safely beneath his chin, had both eyes wide open, thoughts swimming, treading, drowning.

_Only Shiro's ever held me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me @ sugarsweetrascal.tumblr.com for updates, fanart, and general good times
> 
> Thank you for your continued support.


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